


Missed Opportunity

by Lintilla



Series: The Famous John Watson [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-26
Updated: 2012-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lintilla/pseuds/Lintilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock leaves John at the crime scene in A Study in Pink, John is picked up by a certain cab driver.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"He's gone," Sally Donovon shouted out to a confused looking John Watson.

"What?" John asked in disbelief.

"He just left," Sally added and then came closer. "If you ask me, you should stay away from that one, he's dangerous."

John could barely restrain the eye roll he felt coming on; danger he could handle but being left at a crime scene was bloody annoying. Suddenly feeling very foolish and weak, John meekly asked, "Do you know where I can catch a cab? My leg . . ."

Sally nodded pityingly and lifted the tape, "Try the main road."

John smiled stiffly and began limping down the sidewalk. Once he was a couple blocks away and everything was eerily quiet, a taxi pulled up to the curb. The driver, a funny little man with crooked teeth, rolled down the window and asked, "Need a lift?"

For some reason John did not trust the man but ultimately blamed it on his PTSD and thought it would be awfully stupid to turn away the cab because of some gut reaction. After giving his address and settling in for the ride, John thought back over the bizarre night he was having. He found himself confident in thinking that Sherlock Holmes was one of the most extraordinary men he had met, also one of the rudest. Perhaps he was mad for considering living with the man at all but at least he would no longer be bored not with a gorgeous, curly haired whirlwind of a flatmate.

As if the driver had read his mind, he spoke, "Sherlock Holmes left without you then?"

John's stomach dropped and his muscles tensed as he replied, "Pardon?"

"You accompanied Sherlock Holmes to that crime scene but he left you behind."

With growing unease, John lowered his voice to ask, "How the _hell_ do you know that?"

The driver chuckled lightly, "Mr. Holmes has quite a few fans. His most attentive one let me know he would be around here. I was hoping to give him a ride but I guess I'll just have to settle for his . . . friend? . . . colleague?"

It was then that John noticed they were not headed toward his flat. "Where are we going?"

"Just somewhere we can have a nice chat without being interrupted. Would you happen to have a mobile on you?"

"No. If I had, I would've called the police as soon as you mentioned Sherlock."

"Good, we don't want any interference now do we?"

When the cab stopped, John was relieved that he at least recognized the college he was being taken into. Just when he was starting to size the man up and plan how he would take him down, the driver took out a gun and motioned for John to get out of the car. The cabbie walked behind him, guiding him into the vacant building and eventually setting him down in an empty classroom. With barely restrained glee on his face, the driver took a seat across the table from him.

While John glowered at him and remained perfectly still, the cabbie reached into his pocket and produced two vials of pills. He set them both of the table and slowly slid one capsule toward John.

"We're going to play a game. One of these pills is poison and the other is a placebo. You choose one and I'll take the other, then we both swallow."

John rolled his eyes as he drawled, "Let me guess: both capsules are filled with iocane powder and you've spent the last few years building up an immunity."

The cabbie laughed heartily, "Are you really not afraid?"

John cocked his head, "What's there to be afraid of?"

"If you don't choose a pill, I'll shoot you," the cabbie replied blandly, taking out his gun for emphasis. "It's your choice."

While deliberately pursing his lips, John hummed sarcastically, "Hmmmmm . . . you know, I've been shot before, I don't quite like the idea of bleeding out but then again I've been poisoned before and choking on my own vomit isn't much of an improvement. I think I'll take the gun . . . in the forehead if you don't mind."

John emphasized his point by putting his hands in his lap and leaning his head forward expectantly.

"Come on, aren't you the least bit curious as to _how_ I did it, because it's not pure luck if that's what you're thinking."

"No . . . no, I don't really care. I've had enough of flashy _geniuses_ for one night and I'd much prefer to get this over with. Besides, once you learn a magician's secret, it takes all the fun out of it."

With a huff, the cabbie moved the gun forward and pulled the trigger. John smirked widely when all it produced was a small flame.

"So, how could you tell?"

John rolled his eyes, "If you're going to coerce someone into suicide at least have the courtesy to buy a realistic looking fake gun."

"No one else noticed."

"Yeah, just your luck you pick up an invalided veteran," John replied snidely while digging his mobile out of his jacket, "Yes, hello, can you connect me to Detective Lestrade please?"

The cabbie's eyes widened, "You said you didn't have a mobile."

"And you said a lighter was a gun so we both lied . . . Detective, this is John Watson, we met earlier this evening . . . that's right, I was with Sherlock Holmes . . . no, he took off . . . listen, I met someone interesting . . ."

As John explained things to Lestrade, the cabbie grew more distraught, eventually he reached out and grabbed the pill closest to him and popped it into his mouth. John noticed at the last moment and shook his head in disappointment, "Oh, and Detective, you best send an ambulance as well."

After hanging up, John leapt from his chair and effortlessly slid across the table just as the cabbie began showing signs of asphyxiation. Desperately, John began wrestling with the man who was stubbornly keeping his mouth closed and kicking violently. John shouted in frustration, "Don't do this, you stubborn arse!"

The murderer continued to flail, refusing John's help until the doctor stood and angrily kicked the man in the side, "At least tell me who hired you! You may be clever but you definitely did not do this alone." When the man refused to answer, John lowered his voice to a steely growl, "If you don't give me a name, I'll tell everyone we played your game and you lost. The ambulance will be here any minute and despite your best efforts, a team of police restraining you and fully equipped paramedics will be able to save you. It's going to be my word against yours on what happened and physician/war hero beats murderous cab driver for credibility . . . Give me a name and I'll let you die, taking that _genius_ secret to your grave."

The man looked like was considering the idea as John leant closer and, in a reassuring tone, told him, "I promise, on my honor as a soldier."

The cabbie nodded and hoarsely choked out one word, "Moriarty."

John patted the dying man's shoulder and stood up, watching yet another person pass away in front of him.

* * *

John sat on the back of an ambulance with a ridiculous looking, orange shock blanket draped across his shoulders. He had tried explaining it was hardly necessary but they insisted that was the shock talking. Soon he was joined by a relieved looking Detective Lestrade who had a warm smile on his handsome face.

"You've had quite a night, Dr. Watson: survived Sherlock Holmes _and_ being abducted by a serial killer. I'm impressed," Lestrade said with a nod before asking, "Did he happen to say anything before he died?"

"No," John said as he began to worry if his story would raise suspicions in the clearly capable detective. "Look, about what happened-"

"I read your statement: he knocked you to the ground, ran across the room, and you couldn't get to him in time on account of your leg. Makes sense to me."

"But I still let a man die in front of me."

Lestrade put his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels, "Well, he wasn't a very _good_ man, now was he?"

John was surprised and somewhat delighted to see a smile creep onto the detective's face. John relaxed and replied, "Not to mention a bloody awful cab driver. You should've seen the route he took."

Both men laughed heartily until John stopped himself, covering his mouth, "Suppose it's a bit not good to be giggling at a crime scene."

Lestrade patted his back, "We'll just blame it on the shock."

After a moment, John pondered out loud, "I wonder if Sherlock ever found that suitcase?"

Lestrade scoffed, "Bloody well may have but it doesn't really matter now. I'd love to be able to see his face when he reads about this tomorrow."

"You're not going to phone him?"

"What and ruin the surprise?" Lestrade said before sighing and shaking his head, "Sherlock's a bit of a wildcard. I go to him only when I have no other option. He's brilliant but he doesn't give a damn about actually helping."

John stared back with a slight look of confusion as Lestrade elaborated, "Everything is about solving the mystery, nothing else matters. What you saw tonight was Sherlock at his best and it's beautiful, isn't it. He comes in, sees things no one else sees, performs magical feats of deduction, and waltzes away. What you haven't seen is the rest of him: the sulking, the destructive boredom, the ungodly experiments, and the constant, petulant, childish behavior," Lestrade shrugged and added, "I didn't start going grey until I met him."

While John tried to process the new image of Sherlock, Lestrade asked, "You seem like a normal bloke, how did you get mixed up with someone like him?"

"To be honest, I was considering sharing a flat with him."

"I think you may have dodged a bullet there," Lestrade laughed then thought for second before continuing, "You know, I have an extra room. I'm not as exciting as Sherlock but the place is clean and in a decent neighborhood."

"I wouldn't want to impose, Detective."

"Please, call me Greg," Lestrade answered, "You'd be saving me from going home to an empty flat, my ex-wife kinda cleaned me out when she left."

Briefly, John thought back to Sherlock and his piercing grey eyes but decided it was too much of a risk. Reaching his hand out, he shook Lestrade's and smiled, "Greg, I think we can work something out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Sherlock was not in this chapter but I promise he will be in the others and there will be romance and adventure and, if I'm feeling up to it, smut. Please leave comments and let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh, Dr. Watson!" Mrs. Hudson called out before John could even knock on the door. "I've been reading all about you in the papers. That must've been terrifying, being picked up by that serial killer."

"It wasn't that bad," John shrugged. "His gun wasn't even real."

"Still, he killed four people and you stopped him. People are calling you a hero," Mrs. Hudson gushed, "but then again, you're probably used to it being an army doctor and all."

John smiled stiffly as the old woman continued, "Of course Sherlock's been in a right snit since he found out. Now don't you worry, I gave him a good scolding for taking you there in the first place. Are you still thinking of moving in?"

"No, actually the detective handling the case offered me a room in his flat."

Mrs. Hudson nodded, "That's probably for the best. Sherlock's a bit of a handful. Shame though, I was hoping you'd have a calming influence on him."

"Is he in at the moment?" John asked as he gestured upstairs.

"Oh yes, just go on up. Silly thing never does lock the door."

Once John limped his way up the stairs, he peered into the flat noticing Sherlock sprawled out across the sofa. John knocked tentatively at the half open door and pushed it the rest of the way when Sherlock let out a groan of welcome. Surprisingly John found himself disappointed that the detective was not wearing another one of his stylish suits, instead he was dressed in pajamas and a blue, satin dressing gown. Seeing as it was three o'clock in the afternoon, John was beginning to understand what Greg meant about Sherlock's sulking.

John stood awkwardly in the middle of the cluttered living room and waited for Sherlock to say something. Finally, he gave a forced clearing of his throat and Sherlock turned his head toward him as if it were a great inconvenience.

"Oh, it's you. I didn't hear you come in," Sherlock drawled.

John looked about the flat and spotted a bright pink suit case by the fireplace. "So you found the case then. Where was it?"

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock mumbled. "Seems the work was already done."

John huffed indignantly, "You make it sound like I somehow upstaged you. I was abducted and nearly murdered!"

Sherlock waved his hand, "Nonsense, the gun wasn't even real."

"No, but if it had been, I'd be dead. Would you prefer that? Me dead so you can investigate a fifth homicide?"

"Don't be so dramatic. You're a soldier, I'm sure you could've overpowered a little, old cabbie. You probably didn't even break a sweat."

"You're unbelievable. Greg said this would happen."

At that, Sherlock sat up, "Greg? Do you mean DI Lestrade? Why are you calling him Greg?"

John smirked slightly at having information Sherlock had not deduced. "Flatmates generally call each other by their first names."

"So his wife finally moved out," Sherlock mused and then added with a quirk of his lips, "Guess he's looking for a replacement. Are you a good cook?"

John sighed condescendingly, like he was admonishing a naughty child. Rocking on his heels, he shook his head in mock disappointment, "Here I came over to tell you some vital information I _didn't_ tell the police and you're being incredibly rude. Perhaps I shouldn't have bothered."

Sherlock tried to suppress his curiosity but his own eyebrows rising up quizzically betrayed his aloof act. John took out his mobile and pretended to browse his messages in silence as Sherlock's patience boiled over.

"Oh for God's sake, just tell me already!" Sherlock shouted petulantly.

John looked up from his mobile and tilted his head in expectation. Sherlock finally sighed and reluctantly added, "Please."

With a facetious smile, John put away his mobile and took a seat across from Sherlock. Once he leaned back and relaxed, he began, "What I told the police was that he forced his victims to take a pill at gunpoint." Sherlock nodded in annoyance as John continued, "What I didn't tell them was that there were _two_ pills. One was poison and the other a placebo. The victim chose one while the cabbie took the other."

Sherlock looked confused, "But that's merely chance then."

"He swore that it wasn't, and since he was four for four, I'm inclined to believe him." John then took a small vial out of his pocket and set it on the coffee table. "That is the other pill. I swiped it before the police arrived."

Sherlock gazed on; his grey eyes alight with fascination. John was momentarily distracted by their ethereal beauty but collected himself and kept speaking, "He set them down equally at first but then pushed one forward and demanded that I choose."

Sherlock maintained his gaze, waiting for John to finish but when no more information was forthcoming, he spoke, "Well? What did you choose?"

John stared back, confused, "I didn't. Sherlock, you don't play their games. Once you engage them, play along, they've already won."

"But don't you want to know how he did it?" Sherlock asked, as if John were missing something obvious.

"No, it doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters! Without _this_ ," Sherlock motioned at the pill, "it's simply . . ."

"Murder?" John finished. "What you're failing to understand is that even with a contrived game, it's _still_ murder."

"I know that," Sherlock snapped in response.

"No, I don't think you do," John replied just as forcefully. "I bet that had you been in my place, you would've taken the damn pill just to prove you're smarter."

"That's ridiculous," Sherlock dismissed with a wave.

"Is it? Tell me that you haven't been debating which one was the poison ever since I told you there were two. Since I saw which one he grabbed to kill himself, I know. Do you think you would've figured it out?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and focused on John, trying to glean the answer but the doctor had steeled himself through years of army training. Sherlock may have been able to read his life story in his mobile and appearance but he would never see past him in a battle of wills. After an impossibly long standoff, Sherlock eventually decided, "I'd take the one closest to him."

John smiled and rose from his chair, "And _that_ , Sherlock Holmes, is why you should never play their games."

As he turned to leave, John stopped in front of the door and looked back at Sherlock, "There was one more thing I left out of the report."

"You're just full of surprises, aren't you Doctor," Sherlock added, trying for sarcasm but unable to hide his actual delight at John's unpredictability.

"The cabbie knew who you were. He specifically picked me up because he saw me with you earlier at the crime scene, said you had a _fan_. Right before he died, I was able to get one name from him: Moriarty." Sherlock's face lit up at the new information and John thought for just a moment that it was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. "So who is he, this Moriarty?"

With barely restrained glee, Sherlock replied, "I have no idea."

John turned back around and walked through the door but soon felt an odd, metal poke on his back. Somehow Sherlock had silently followed him and was holding out his cane. John reached out to take the item and brushed fingers with the detective. The light contact combined with the small smile on Sherlock's face was enough to send an uncharacteristic blush onto John's cheeks. While able to stammer an embarrassed _thank you_ , John continued out of the flat with Sherlock calling after, "I'll see you later."


	3. Chapter 3

Since he had few actual possessions, John's move into Greg's flat was rather quick and easy. As he expected, the place was sparse, but it was also surprisingly large with two bathrooms, three bedrooms, and even a small garden out back. The largest bedroom was the master suite but it was not where Greg was sleeping. Instead, that room was occupied with two twin size beds, a desk, computer, TV with game console, and other various toys. Greg slept down the hall in a room the same size as John's. The two smaller bedrooms were separated by a decent sized bathroom with twin sinks, a shower, and laundry machines.

After the move-in, Greg prepared a small meal of pasta for John and the two talked mostly about football and rugby. Once dinner was finished, John sat out to work on his laptop and Greg read over the newspaper.

"I know this is none of my business but how did it happen, your leg?" Greg asked awkwardly as he nodded at John's cane. "Was it in the war?"

John looked down at his leg and sighed, supposing he might as well tell the truth, "The limp is psychosomatic, all in my head apparently. That doesn't stop it from bloody hurting, a lot. My therapist thinks it's post traumatic stress. She wants me to keep a blog and talk about everything that happens to me."

"Is that what you're working on, your blog?"

"Yeah, I'm writing up what happened with the murders," John added, "But for the life of me, I can't think of a title."

"How about a Study in Pink?" Greg suggested with a grin.

"I suppose it makes sense," John pondered. "Pink clothes, pink nails-"

"Pink phone," Greg added.

"I didn't know they found a phone."

"Yeah, it was in the cab under the floor mat in the back. Seemed an odd place for it."

Suddenly, everything fell into place and John whipped out his mobile. He quickly sent a text to Sherlock that read: _I know what Rachel means. – JW_.

He soon received a text in response: _Doesn't matter. –SH._

John could barely suppress a smile at Sherlock's petulance. He wrote back: _Not curious? –JW_

There was a long pause before John received an answer that read: _Were you told or did you deduce it? –SH_

John laughed out loud making Greg glance over at him curiously. Deciding to keep being coy, John replied: _What do you think? –JW_

Sherlock answered with a command: _Meet at 221B Baker St to discuss conclusions. –SH_

Shutting his laptop and rising eagerly, John turned to Greg and announced, "I'm going out for a bit, probably won't be too late."

Greg answered casually, "Got a date?"

"No, I'm meeting up with Sherlock," John replied as he put on his jacket.

Greg let out a choked laugh, " _Meeting up with Sherlock?_ You make it sound like you're going for a pint and a chat."

"Is that so strange?" John asked with a tilt of his head.

"For Sherlock, it's bloody unheard of," Greg answered. "There's no such thing as casual time spent with Sherlock Holmes. If you actually intend to spend time with him make sure your mobile is charged and you go armed."

"Is he dangerous or something?" John asked, trying to convince himself that the idea was not making his blood pump faster.

"He's not dangerous but the situations he puts himself are," Greg replied and then softened. "Just, be careful."

John thought that being abducted by a serial killer during their first outing was only a coincidence but he decided to take Greg's advice. Quickly, John darted upstairs and found the pistol he had been saving since he returned to London. He also grabbed the pocket knife his sister had given him as a welcome home present. Feeling more prepared for whatever madness awaited him, John left the flat only to be met by two intimidating looking men stepping out of a black sedan.

"Dr. John Watson?" One of the men asked.

John rolled his eyes as he replied, "I guess there's no point in denying it."

The man held open the car door and firmly commanded, "Please, get in."

"Would it mean anything if I said I didn't want to?" John asked dryly.

"No, now get in," the man commanded again.

* * *

"You're late," Sherlock announced in obvious irritation.

"Yes, well, I was abducted . . . again, seems to be a pattern when I'm around you."

Sherlock's eyes lit up as he asked, "Was it Moriarty?"

"I don't know. He called himself your archenemy."

At that Sherlock visibly deflated and replied, "So, he had you picked up in a pompous black sedan and ushered off to an abandoned warehouse. Was he carrying an umbrella?"

"Yes, he was. How could you possibly know all that?" John asked, excited for another one of the man's impressive feats of deduction.

However, Sherlock just shrugged, "It's what he always does. Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"No, actually, he asked me to plant cameras in your flat and proposed a threesome," John deadpanned. The momentary look of shock on Sherlock's face was worth the unsettling idea of sex with the arrogant bastard from earlier.

The surprise faded almost instantly and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you're making a joke," he replied flatly. "If he did offer you money, I would normally advise you to take it but seeing as he's hacking my mobile again, I'd say he has an unusually keen interest in you. You're best refusing him and not risking the sale of your immortal soul."

"So who is he exactly?" John asked but was brushed off with a wave from Sherlock.

The detective plopped into his armchair and answered, "Not important. So tell me: who's Rachel?"

John laughed, "You think I'm just going to tell you?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered at John's mischievous attitude as he replied, "Fine, be that way. Tell me the evidence that led to your conclusion and we'll see if I figure it out as well."

"Oh no," John admonished as he wagged his finger. "You already know the conclusion, therefore, any evidence I present to you will be too easily connected. I won't tell you what evidence led me to my deduction and will instead work backwards."

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and took a moment to stare suspiciously at John. Finally, his curiosity won out and he replied, "Very well."

John took a seat in the armchair across from Sherlock's and began his story, "She was a very clever woman, much smarter than me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and mumbled, "Not that difficult."

John sneered in response and continued, "When I realized the driver was not taking me home and began mentioning the crime scene, I started thinking about how clever he was. He picked me up on an abandoned street with no one knowing I was there and no one expecting me. Cabs blend in, no one recalls seeing a suspicious _taxi_."

"A camouflaged hunter, stalking its prey," Sherlock added.

"Exactly. He told me that no one else knew his gun was fake so that means this woman recognized that they were going the wrong way, her abductor had a weapon, and no one would know what had happened. She knew she was going to her death."

Sherlock had leaned forward while John spoke and seemed enraptured by his story. John decided a little more teasing was in order, "Think Sherlock, in her coat pockets and suit case, what was the one thing missing? The one item that a woman like her would never part with unless it meant life or death?"

"Her mobile," Sherlock answered, suddenly deflated. "I'd already figured out the killer had that and was actually planning a trap for him when you returned to the flat."

John pushed down the grin that threatened to form as he continued, "It's not that he _took_ the mobile but that it was _planted_ on him. She knew she couldn't call for help, that she was doomed, so she hid it under the floormat in the back."

That was all it took for the puzzle to connect in Sherlock's brain. His lips formed an _O_ of surprise as he leapt from his chair in excitement. Clapping his hands together, he shouted, "Brilliant!"

John did not know whether that particular compliment was for him or the dead woman but either way he felt a flush at the approval of the detective. Sherlock paced as he finished John's story for him, "She planted the mobile so that the taxi could be traced by the GPS. _Rachel_ was the password for her account! John, that was amazing. How did you find out about the phone?"

"Greg and I were talking about all the pink and he mentioned a pink mobile that was found under the floormat in the back," John answered, still giddy from Sherlock's praise.

Sherlock flinched and mouthed _Greg_ in an almost spiteful manner that John could have sworn was almost jealous. The detective retook his seat and inquired, "How are you finding life with Lestrade and his giant, empty flat?"

"There seem to be no stray body parts and a definite lack of chemical experiments," John replied with a mumbled _dull_ from Sherlock. "But no live music. I have to admit, I was looking forward to your thought-inducing violin concertos."

Sherlock smiled slightly as he lowered his voice to answer, "There may yet be time for that."

John felt an embarrassing blush rise in his cheeks but the moment was mercifully cut short by the ringing of Sherlock's mobile. The conversation was short and Sherlock hung up looking perturbed. After pocketing his phone, Sherlock sat silent for a moment before gazing intently at John and then spoke with the slightest hint of uncertainty, "Would you mind accompanying me on an errand?"

John tilted his head and asked, "A new case?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No, this is a . . . personal matter. Well, I say personal but it's more of an obligation. It would be useful to have another person with me . . . just in case."

John was taken aback and paused to consider what the detective could possibly mean, but for some reason, he did not seem to care as long as it meant continuing to feel his pulse race at the man's every word.


	4. Chapter 4

The cab ride to their destination was filled with Sherlock explaining one of his past cases that required him to work undercover as a bus driver. John was so entranced by the story, he did not even notice they had arrived and the driver had to ask them to get out. To John's surprise, they were at a local police station instead of the Yard or Bart's. When they entered, the woman at the front desk immediately recognized Sherlock and sighed in relief, "Thank God you're here." She then turned and shouted, "Reg! Holmes is here."

A rather frazzled looking sergeant bolted out from the back and waved for Sherlock to follow him. John started to go with but Sherlock stopped him and commanded, "Wait here, I shouldn't be long."

John watched as Sherlock disappeared into the back where a loud female voice could be heard, "Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes! You've got to help me!"

John tried to listen to the rest but the voices lowered and he was left awkwardly standing by the front desk. The officer at the front desk eyed him suspiciously and after several minutes, finally asked, "So how do you know Saint Sherlock? I've never seen him with a friend before."

"I'm sorry, _Saint_ Sherlock?"

"Yeah, the patron saint of London's homeless," the officer answered with obvious disdain. "Whenever one of those nasty bastards gets arrested for drugs, prostitution, fighting, or whatever else they get up to, Sherlock always comes to bail 'um out."

"Sherlock does?" John replied in shock.

"Comes strolling in here, insults every officer he sees, tells us what we're doing wrong, and then slaps down enough money to put the miserable bugger back on the street. He's listed as the emergency contact for probably half the homeless in this city."

Before the officer could continue her rant, Sherlock emerged from the back accompanied by an old woman covered in rags and hunched over, darting angry glares around the station. Sherlock led the woman over to John and began introductions, "Mrs. Granger, this is my friend, Dr. John Watson. John this is Mrs. Lydia Granger, one of my oldest informants."

With a thick, nearly incomprehensible accent, the old woman held out a small, boney hand and spoke, "It's a pleasure. Mr. Holmes says you're a good doctor and you're gonna help us."

John glanced up questioningly at Sherlock but quickly looked back to the old woman as he replied, "That's right. I'll assist you in any way I can."

Sherlock gave a quick smile that John recognized as one of his infrequent genuine smiles. All too soon, his look of haughty contempt was back as he loudly spoke, "Imagine that: someone actually interested in _solving_ crimes. It's quite refreshing."

The sergeant answered back angrily, "Just take that barmy witch and get out. She's been running round here for the past hour; God knows what she's stolen."

Sherlock huffed and stormed out with Mrs. Granger following behind but not before she glared at the sergeant again and spat. John gave a useless shrug of apology to the fuming police officers and followed out the door.

* * *

John wanted desperately to ask what was going on and where they were going but it was all he could do to keep up with Sherlock and the surprisingly fast homeless woman. She led them through side streets and down alleyways until they were in some abandoned underground system. It was dark and eerie with figures shuffling in the shadows and rats bounding past their feet. John felt as if he were going to be attacked, mugged, or murdered at any second. For the briefest instance, it reminded him of being back in Afghanistan with danger lurking around every corner. The soldier within began to come forth and John's senses heightened as he diligently took in his surroundings.

Sherlock seemed completely unfazed. He strolled through the underground world as though he were walking down any other street in London. Mrs. Granger led the way, walking nervously and suspiciously eyeing every person they passed. John supposed that her behavior was probably normal for her, cultivated from probably decades living in London's fringe.

Eventually, the old woman led them into another side corridor that opened into a larger room. People were lined up along the walls either sitting or sleeping. Mrs. Granger brought them to a man huddled under three blankets. He had a scruffy beard and crooked nose that looked as if it had been broken multiple times over the years. If John had to guess his age, he would say forty-five but he may have been younger and aged prematurely from a hard life.

Mrs. Granger knelt down next to him and spoke gently, "Gus, Mr. Holmes is here and he brought a doctor. Show him what you done showed me."

The man turned on his side and pulled the blankets closer to his body. Mrs. Granger tutted and smacked his arm, "Gus, I'm talking to you. Mr. Holmes ain't gonna wait all day."

With an irritated huff, the man moved his blankets aside and pulled up the bottom of his coat and shirt revealing the side of his torso. Sherlock moved in to examine it and then waved John to join him. Softly, the detective asked, "What do you see?"

"It appears as if he's had a kidney removed, rather recently," John observed. "The stitching is definitely professional and from the size of the wound, the surgeon was very skilled. However, it looks quite inflamed and will become infected if not cleaned regularly."

Mrs. Granger chimed in, "He disappeared for a whole day and then when he showed up, he didn't remember nothing 'bout where he'd been. He was carryin' a bag with stuff in it and don't know where he got it."

"Show me the bag," Sherlock commanded.

The old woman rummaged around by Gus' head and produced a small, brown paper bag, handing it to Sherlock. After rustling through its contents, Sherlock handed it over to John. It contained a pill bottle with instructions to take one pill twice a day, gauze, medical tape, pain medication, and antibiotic wound emulsion.

"Has he taken any of these pills?" John asked Mrs. Granger while Gus covered himself back up and buried his body under the blankets.

"No, he refuses," the old woman replied, casting a disapproving glance at the man. "I'm the only one he even lets see it."

"Show me the others," Sherlock demanded.

John's horror only grew as he examined ten more people, all missing some kind of organ but having no memory of the procedure. The last person struck him particularly hard as it was a young woman, no more than 20, who had her eyes removed. She was so scared and traumatized by the experience that she was refusing food and medication. The ocular cavities were not being taken care of properly so the wounds were festering.

John took Mrs. Granger and Sherlock aside, telling them, "I know you don't trust whoever sent the antibiotics but these people _must_ take them. I will take a sample of the pills and examine them in the lab to make sure their safe but right now that girl needs to go to the hospital or she will die."

The old woman nodded her understanding and crouched next to the eyeless girl, trying to convince her to get help. John crossed his arms and softly asked Sherlock, "What do you make of all this?"

"Black market organ harvesting, hardly unheard of among the homeless but this is different," Sherlock replied while bringing his hand up to his chin in concentration.

"If you're stealing organs, why bother providing aftercare?"

"Why indeed? What else do you notice?" Sherlock asked, clearly wanting to see if John is keeping up with him.

John noticed the challenge in the other man's words and took a moment to collect all his observations so he could spit them out rapid fire, a mimic of Sherlock's style. Once he had gathered his thoughts, John began, "There are no obvious signs of struggle and no recollection of fights from the victims, so they likely knew whoever abducted them or did not expect anything suspicious until they were drugged and hauled away. Every time someone was taken, they were alone and in an abandoned area, meaning that their abductors had been watching them in order to pick out the best time. Whoever performed the surgery was good, _very_ good; this was no back-alley procedure. They must have been done in a clinical setting with a competent staff and a skilled anesthesiologist who kept the patients sedated throughout the entire ordeal without complications."

"What else?" Sherlock asked, barely able to conceal the excitement in his voice.

"The blankets; a good number of the blankets here are new but with no tags or markings. Also the food tins are nondescript and supplied in bulk," John said as he surveyed a large stack of supplies in the far corner of the room. Rummaging in another box, he continued, "Clean hypodermic needles, lots of them with writing on the sides. _One time use only_. Whoever is giving out these supplies, they want the people warm, well fed, and disease free."

"You're missing something rather important," Sherlock replied with the beginnings of a smug smile at the corner of his mouth.

John rolled his eyes and played along, "And what would that be?"

"The tattoos," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"What tattoos?"

Sherlock sighed dramatically, "Do try to keep up, John. Almost every person here has a tattoo on the back of their necks."

"And I suppose you can tell me why," John said and then added, "or am I going to have to deduce it myself?"

"Don't be absurd, I wouldn't expect your brain to do that much work," Sherlock answered earning himself an exaggerated glare from John. "The tattoos are small dots, meant to look like freckles or moles but are actually-"

"Brail," John interrupted, pleased at the momentary look of surprise on Sherlock's face. "It's a brail numbering system to identify each victim. That means they're abducting, examining, and then marking each person. My God, they're treating them like cattle."

Sherlock nodded grimly, "Yes, there's been a crackdown on illegal organ transplants in recent years so it looks like someone is trying to harvest them locally. The fact that they're going to so much trouble for each victim means they intend to use them again and sell each organ for the highest price."

"They could just take all the vital organs at once," John added, "but since they're only taking one at a time, it means it's a supply and demand situation."

"Elite clientele who are desperate enough to pay an exorbitant sum in order to have clean, fresh, disease-free organs," Sherlock finished, seeming to cringe in distaste.

John took a moment to breathe in deeply as he contemplated what was happening and look over the faces of the homeless victims. He gave Sherlock a determined nod and asked, "What do we do about it?"

"That is actually the easy part," Sherlock said with a dismissive wave. "It's only a matter of alerting Scotland Yard and, with the mountain of evidence here, even they will be able to put a stop to things. That is not our current problem?"

"Pray tell, what _is_ the current problem then?"

"Do you have a signal on your mobile?" Sherlock asked looking at his own with a frown.

John took his out from his jacket and sighed, "No, I think we're too far underground."

"Exactly. Some very dangerous people are going to lose a great deal of money and face jail time when word of this gets out, so odds are this location is closely watched. Our presence has not gone unnoticed. It will be in their best interest that we never make it to the surface alive."

John steeled himself and straightened his back before replying, "What do you suggest we do?"

Sherlock took a small breath and then answered, "Run."

With a flourish of his long, wool coat, Sherlock turned and called out, "Mrs. Granger!"

The old woman rushed over to him from where she was crouched against the wall. "Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"Dr. Watson and I need to get to the surface quickly and without being seen. Do you have a suggestion for an alternative route?"

Mrs. Granger smiled and yelled, "Vincent! Arthur!" Two young men were almost immediately at her side showing the level of influence she had over her people. "Take Mr. Holmes and his doctor out the back way. Make sure you ain't seen."

"Yes, Ma'am," one of the men said politely. "Follow us."

Before they could leave, Mrs. Granger stopped them, "Oh, Mr. Holmes, I almost forgot. I snatched this from the station."

The old woman held out a small jump drive that Sherlock took from her and placed in his coat pocket.

* * *

Apparently, the _back_ _way_ involved a complex sewer system that seemed to labyrinth beneath the entire city. John tried to keep track of the twists and turns but found himself increasingly disoriented and lost in the near darkness. As they followed behind their two guides, John futilely checked his mobile again for reception. "When we get to the surface, I'll call Greg and-"

"No," Sherlock cut him off with an odd harshness. "Dimmock, he's on duty tonight. Call the Yard and specifically ask for him."

"How much further?" John asked their guides.

"Not far," Arthur called back. "The way out is up ahead."

That was when John noticed the faint splashing noises behind them. Before John could react, he was hit from behind and whirled around only to be punched in the face. Once his senses returned, John could make out two attackers clad in black. While he grappled with the one that had hit him, Sherlock was either chasing or being chased by the other. Just when John knew he had the upper hand in the fight, he heard the distinct click of a pistol cocking.

Frozen in place, John started mentally running over his options. He was at point blank range so even with the low light, his attacker could easily shoot him. Making a move for his own gun would be too easily noticed and likely get him shot. He figured his best bet was to go for the pocket knife in his left jacket pocket only inches from his hand. What he desperately needed was a momentary distraction that was thankfully provided for him by Vincent throwing a rock at the man's head.

In that split second, John reached out and grabbed the attacker's wrist, breaking it with one snap and then brought his pocket knife up to the man's throat. Vincent and Arthur were soon at his side, ready to help. John turned to Arthur and asked, "Do you know how to use a gun?"

Arthur nodded enthusiastically, "Only useful thing I learned in army. Well apart from the knot tying." He emphasized this point by pulling out a length of rope from his coat and binding the man's hands behind his back. John then handed over the man's pistol and told Arthur to take him back to the sleeping room and hold him there.

As Arthur gleefully led his captive back through the sewers, John turned to Vincent and showed him his mobile. "I need you to go to the surface and call Scotland Yard," John instructed while demonstrating where the number was stored. "Ask for DI Dimmock and tell him Sherlock Holmes is in danger and needs backup. Also tell him there are wounded civilians who need to go to hospital. Tell him exactly how to find you and when he gets there, bring him down here. Do you understand?"

Vincent took the mobile and stammered, "Y-yes, D-doctor," before turning and running.

* * *

John wove through the maze of tunnels, his footsteps echoing off the old concrete walls as he splashed through the murky water. He needed to find Sherlock but at the moment he felt like he would never find civilization again. As he was running past a grating that water was falling through, he heard a distinctive voice, "Would you stop pushing me? You seem to be deriving far too pleasure from this situation."

John peered down through the grating and in a narrow but very tall drainage room, Sherlock was being held at gunpoint by a man dressed in all black with his face covered. Sherlock's voice was echoing loudly and John could hear every word he said; however, when John tried shouting out to him, his own voice was lost in the rushing water making it impossible to be heard.

"There's no need for the theatrics, Sgt. White. I'm quite aware of what's going on," Sherlock drawled with obvious irritation.

His captor pulled off his ski mask and sighed, "What gave it away?"

John's eyes widened when he recognized the sergeant from the police station they visited earlier that evening.

"Your involvement is so blatantly obvious I'm shocked that no one else has picked up on it. You probably have half the station wrapped up in this repugnant scheme," Sherlock replied, his voice dripping with contempt. "The fact remains that you're only a middle man, a convenient means to capture these people so when you're caught – and you _will_ be caught – I suggest you have your attorney seek out a plea bargain in exchange for information on your higher ups."

"Yeah, I guess I could do that," the sergeant answered sarcastically, "or I could just kill you now and save myself the trouble."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the predictable threat and replied, "Shooting me and dumping my body is only going to be more suspicious, not to mention the fact that I didn't come here alone."

"Oh, yes, Dr. Watson," Sgt. White said with amusement. "I recognized him from the suicide case. Did you manipulate him into coming with you or could it actually be you made your first friend?" Sherlock's momentary flinch went unnoticed by his captor but John couldn't miss it. "Dr. Watson will be found tomorrow in an alleyway where he was tragically stabbed during a botched mugging and left to bleed out on the pavement."

"I know you have no respect for the lives of the homeless but are you really such an animal as to murder a war hero?" Sherlock asked, causing his captor to scowl deeply.

"Yes, well that could be avoided if you would just hand over the damn data drive the old woman stole from my office!"

"I can't, at least not for a couple more hours, I swallowed it," Sherlock answered with a smirk. "I suppose when you kill me, you'll have to cut me open as well or else it'll show up during my autopsy."

"Not a problem. Bodies left in the sewers are ripped open by rats all the time," White replied with a matching smirk. He then reached into his pocket and took out a hypodermic needle. "My proposition is this: you take this voluntarily, cough up the disk, and I'll let Dr. Watson live. He may get a bump on the head, not remember anything from tonight, but he'll be otherwise completely unharmed."

"What's in it?" Sherlock asked causing John's eyes to widen in shock. It sounded as if he was considering the deal.

"Your old favorite. We all know about your past _indulgences_ and it seems you just couldn't stay away from it. The old woman stole it from the evidence room and shared it with you in thanks for bailing her out. What neither of you knew was that it was a bad batch that already killed three junkies. Such a tragedy, just when you seemed to be living the clean life."

John's stomach dropped when he saw the solemn stare Sherlock gave and the almost resigned tone when he spoke, "Right, John's death would be suspicious but my overdose would be-"

"Long overdue," White finished.

A flash of despair went over Sherlock's face before he reached out and took the proffered needle. John's pulse raced as he realized Sherlock was actually going to take the drugs. Almost entirely on instinct, John raised his gun and shot Sgt. White straight through the heart. The sound thundered through the cylindrical cavern making Sherlock drop the needle and look up, meeting John's eyes with a look of complete shock.

* * *

When John had found his way down to Sherlock, several of the homeless were already there hauling off the body. Arthur smiled upon seeing John and told him, "Nice shot, Doctor. Don't worry, we'll take care of things from here. Got the other one tied up with Mrs. Granger keeping watch."

Once the body was cleared away, Arthur took a lead pipe and banged three times on the wall, seeming to send out a signal. Within a couple minutes, Vincent arrived, leading DI Dimmock and several officers into the room. "I-I told you we'd f-find 'um," Vincent told Dimmock with a sly wink at John. "Here's your phone Dr. W-watson."

Frazzled and confused, Dimmock turned to Sherlock and asked, "Was anyone hurt? We heard a gunshot."

Without batting an eye, Sherlock answered, "We weren't hit but it was a close call. Sgt. White fired at us from up there and then took off running. I doubt we'll be able to catch up with him now."

"Sgt. White – you mean Reg? Christ! What is going on here?"

"The beginning of the worst PR disaster in the Met's history," Sherlock replied dryly.

* * *

By the time John and Sherlock finished showing Dimmock the homeless and explaining why they were missing organs –with the aid of a highly cooperative PC still tied up- it was early morning and the sun was just beginning to creep through the buildings. Sitting side-by-side on the back of an ambulance, they kept were both glad the paramedics were too busy to fuss over John's bruised face and Sherlock sprained ankle. Unfortunately, Sherlock had recovered enough to start complaining, "Why am I wearing this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me."

"It's for shock," John answered. "Don't try to tell them you're not in shock because they won't believe you."

Sherlock grumbled in response and the two were quiet for a few minutes just gazing at the chaotic scene in front of them. Some of the more ill patients were being taken to hospital but many were –justifiably- skeptical of police help. Mrs. Granger was trying to act as a mediator but her shrill voice and generally crazed manner were not helping. John finally spoke, "Did you really swallow that disk?"

Sherlock flinched, realizing that John had heard the entire conversation before he shot White. Quickly, gathering himself, he replied, "Yes, I learned to suppress my gag reflex years ago. Extraordinarily helpful in certain situations."

John's body flushed with arousal as he asked, "You don't have a gag reflex?"

Sherlock noticed John's reaction and repeated, "Like I said – helpful."

The pair stared intensely at each other for a moment before being interrupted by Dimmock, "You two look like hell. Things are going to be crazy around here for a while. Why don't you head home and we'll take your statements tomorrow."

Sherlock shucked the blanket from his shoulders and stood quickly, saying, "That's the sanest things I've heard from the police all night."

John cringed but ditched his own blanket and rose as well. However, before he could walk away, he was stopped by Dimmock who placed a hand on his arm, "Dr. Watson, looks like we owe you another debt. This could've been a lot worse had you not been here."

At that, Sherlock let out an indignant huff but only received an eye roll from Dimmock in response. As they walked toward the main road, John patted Sherlock's back, telling him, "Don't take it personally; I'm told I have an excellent bedside manner."

Sherlock stopped and leaned in close to John's ear to say, "Hmmm, is that a promise?"

John whirled around to stare into Sherlock's eyes almost asking for confirmation on what he just heard, but, as if suddenly spooked, the detective took off in a sprint and hopped into a cab. John stood for a moment, staring in confusion but decided he was too tired to deal with anymore of Sherlock's eccentricities that night.

* * *

When John returned home, Greg was at the kitchen table on the phone and sighed in relief when he saw his flatmate. "No, he just walked in. I'll be at the station in an hour. Don't make any statements to the press until you've consulted legal."

Greg then hung up and took a good look at John, his eyes widening in shock. "Dear God! John, what happened to you!" he shouted as he jumped from the kitchen table. Quickly rushing up to him, the detective placed a hand on his shoulder and used his other to carefully trace the black eye and cut eyebrow.

"Just some minor scrapes," John replied happily.

"You look a mess," Greg muttered while he continued to fuss.

John wasn't sure if it was because he had just narrowly escaped death or because Greg smelled impossibly good, but at that moment, he found himself strongly attracted to his handsome flatmate. It did not help matters when Greg's fingers began to gingerly touch John's split lip and every instinct was begging him to take those fingers into his mouth. In a desperate attempt to break the tension, John laughed, "You should've seen the other guy."

Greg pulled his hands back and broke into a smile, "Dimmock called a few minutes ago, so I'm aware of the basics of what happened, but you need to fill me in on the rest. The police kidnapping the homeless and selling their organs," Greg moaned loudly. "This is going to be a nightmare for us." Greg walked toward the kitchen and started making a cup of tea for John. While the water boiled, he turned and leaned against the counter as he spoke, "I was right about going armed. You can thank me later."

John sat down at the table and replied, "How about dinner tonight?"

"That'll do," Greg answered while flashing a flirtatious smile at John. Before he could say anything else, the bell rang and John started to rise, but Greg waved him back down. "No, you rest, I'll get it."

When Greg returned, he announced, "A young homeless woman just dropped this off, said she was sent by a _Mr. Holmes_."

John's eyes widened when he saw Greg holding his cane. He must have left it behind hours ago and Sherlock, the mad genius, knew exactly what had happened. At that moment, John knew his adventures with Sherlock Holmes had just begun.


	5. Chapter 5

After the day's activity of following Sherlock through a slaughterhouse, John had never been more grateful for a shower in his entire life. Grinning to himself, John was thinking of all the different titles he could put on his blog such as _Meat is Murder_ or _Mad Cow Mayhem_ when he literally ran into someone in the hallway on the way to his bedroom. To his shock, John found himself face to face with a boy looking to be 15 or 16. His hair was a rich chocolate brown formed in loose curls covering most of his ears and almost falling into his familiar brown eyes. The boy gawked widely until John realized it was because he was wearing only a towel and his dog tags. Sidestepping the speechless teenager, John mumbled an apology and scurried into his room.

When he had dressed and walked downstairs, John was greeted by the unusual sound of Greg laughing. Sitting on the sofa was Greg with the teenager from earlier and another boy that looked just like him only with straight hair. They both bore a striking resemblance to Greg and made John wonder if that's how Greg had looked at their age. With a large grin, Greg stood and spoke, "John, these are my son's: Mark," Greg said while gesturing toward the straight-haired one, "and Luke," while clapping the curly-haired one on the back. "This is my new flatmate, John Watson."

The curly-haired boy leaned over and whispered to his brother who nodded and then spoke, "Luke says you had on dog tags. Were you in the army?"

"Yes, the RAMC. I returned from Afghanistan a few months ago."

"You're a doctor?" Mark asked with bright eyes. John nodded and the boy kept talking, "Why did you come back? Was your tour up or did you get wounded? My mate, Ste, his older brother was shot and killed over there. Luke wants to join the army but I think it's a bad idea. They might try to separate us plus it's really dangerous and hot and-"

"Mark, let John answer a question before you talk him to death," Greg interrupted. "Sorry 'bout that, John. Luke hardly says a word but Mark never shuts up."

John smiled at the indignant glare Mark gave his father. "I was wounded, shot in the left shoulder. They sent me home because no one has use for a surgeon with a bad arm."

"Don't sell yourself short," Greg replied. "John has been working with Sherlock Holmes and together they've solved six cases in five weeks."

"Seven. We just finished the meat hook murders this afternoon. I'll never look at a steak the same way again."

"Wait, Sherlock Holmes?" Mark asked. "Isn't he that mad bloke that crashed our birthday party last year to tell you he had successfully grown mold inside a balloon?"

Greg nodded, "The one and only."

Mark laughed making him sound briefly like his father, "You should be up for sainthood for working with him." Mark was about continue when Luke tugged on his sleeve and pointed at the clock. Mark nodded and announced, "The match is on. We should watch it in our room since the telly's bigger."

* * *

After an hour or so, John needed a break and went downstairs. As he puttered about the kitchen, fetching beer for Greg and soda for the boys, he couldn't help thinking about how much he had been enjoying himself that evening. Seeing Greg with his sons allowed John the chance to experience an entirely new side of the detective that he found all the more endearing. When he turned around from the fridge, he jumped when he found himself face to face with the straight-haired twin, Mark. How those boys moved so quietly, John would never understand.

"I think it's great that you're living here," Mark said with an awkward pat to John's arm. "I don't like my dad livin' all alone so I'm glad he finally has someone around."

"I'm happy to be here and your dad is easy to live with," John replied as he gave a reassuring smile, "except he can't cook to save his life."

"No, he can't. If it weren't for takeout, I think he'd starve to death," Mark laughed loudly. After a moment he was quiet and crossed his arms before saying, "It's been really hard for him the last few years. He and Mum hadn't gotten on well for a long time and then when she started in with her new church, things got worse."

Greg had never said much about his ex-wife and all John knew were things Donovan had told him mostly that she was cold and short-tempered. John had always assumed the tension came from Greg's dangerous job with its long hours but he was beginning to suspect that wasn't the case. However, what Mark was describing was so much more terrible than what John could've imagined.

"They'd been sleeping in separate bedrooms since we were kids. Dad coulda left any time but I think he stayed to be with us. A couple years ago Mum started seeing this bloke and ended up joinin' his church. I can't explain it, but she changed. Where she used to be strict, she became nearly intolerable, always talking about sin and blasphemy and who was goin' to hell. One night durin' dinner she starts in about the _sin_ of homosexuality and some protest rally she wanted us to go to. She says that gays are evil and ruining the country that all they want is to recruit young people then Dad just says, ' _Well, I'm gay and I can promise I have no plans of any recruiting_.' You shoulda seen Mum's face; her jaw nearly hit the table. Dad finishes up by askin' her to pass the potatoes."

John always wondered how Greg could put up with Sherlock, but after hearing about what he had to deal with at home, Sherlock was probably a welcome breath of sanity.

"My Dad is a good man and a very good cop, but I think that was the moment when I figured out just how brave he is," Mark said with a proud gleam in his eyes. "What you gotta understand is that my mum is terrifying. When she's upset, nobody's happy. No one's ever said it but I think the reason Luke don't talk much around other people is 'cause of her."

"If she's so – you know- why do you . . ."

"Live with her instead of Dad?" Mark finished and John nodded. "Soon after that night, Mum announced she was gonna marry George, her boyfriend, and that they were moving in together. She insisted that we live with her and threatened to take it to court since George is a lawyer. We try to come and see Dad whenever we can, but with Mum how she is and his job, it's hard."

John nodded sadly as he thought how difficult it must be for Greg with being separated from his children and dealing with a bitter, prejudiced ex-wife. Mark seemed to notice the dejected expression on John's face and continued, "You know, I'm not like my mum, I don't have anything against gays. As long as you two like each other then it shouldn't matter. My dad's a top detective and you're a war hero doctor so it don't matter what Mum or George or those church nuts think, you two are better than all them."

John thought for a second about correcting Mark, telling him that he and his father were not lovers, but he could not bring himself to do so. Instead, he smiled and told the boy, "I'm sure your dad appreciates your support."

Mark opened his mouth as if he were about to continue but Greg was coming down the stairs and walked into the kitchen. "Luke says he's hungry and wants pizza but won't tell me what toppings he wants."

"He likes vegetables especially spinach and mushroom," Mark answered. "He thinks you'll laugh at him. I want sausage and pepperoni. John wants . . . ham and pineapple?"

"Yes, that's my favorite! How did you know that?" John gasped.

"It's a gift," Mark replied proudly.

Greg groaned, "Of all the special abilities a person can have, my son has the uncanny ability to guess topping preferences, his future as a waiter is all but assured."

As Greg dug out the takeaway menus, he asked, "Has Mark been talking your ear off? I swear he'll tell a complete stranger his life story if he gets the chance."

Once the pizza arrived, John watched as Mark fixed Luke's plate then set it in front of him at the table. Without asking, he even brought him a soda and napkin, going as far as to scoot Luke's chair closer to the table. John gave Greg a questioning eyebrow raise but Greg only shook his head and mouthed _always been that way_. Unsurprisingly, Mark decided to lead the conversation starting with, "How did you two meet?"

"You remember that cabbie that was forcing people to commit suicide?" the boys nodded. "John was the one who caught him. Afterward, we were talking and he mentioned he was looking for a room and I told him I needed a flatmate."

Mark rolled his eyes, "Dad, only you could take something as exciting as a serial killer and life or death situations and make it sound so bland. I bet it was much more romantic."

Both boys cast expectant looks at John while Greg's cheeks flushed as he thought of a way to correct his son. However, John reached over and affectionately clasped Greg's hand, answering, "Hmmm, I don't know, a handsome police officer asks me to move in with him, I think that's as romantic as it gets."

It was brief but while Greg was sputtering in embarrassment and confusion, John noticed a small smile pass between Mark and Luke. The rest of the evening was spent playing video games in the boys' room something John was horridly bad at and Greg was surprisingly good.

* * *

It was going on 1:00 when the boys finally fell asleep, allowing Greg the chance to slip out of their room. John glanced inside seeing Mark sprawled out on his back, one leg hanging loose while Luke was curled up on his bed, only a curly mop sticking out of the blanket. Greg gently closed the door and walked toward his room, nodding for John to join him. Once John stepped in, he took a moment to survey the space he had never actually seen from the inside. The room was clearly lived in, stuffed with Greg's books, photos, and clothing along with a desk littered with papers and files over his computer. While the rest of the flat was an empty shell, his bedroom was distinctly his. John figured that over the years of isolation and hiding from his wife, Greg had made his bedroom his one sanctuary.

After closing his door, Greg turned around and looked more nervous than John had ever seen him. While Greg gathered his wits to begin what he had planned to say, John couldn't help but stare at his large hands as they ran through his graying hair leaving it in messy spikes. With a deliberate huff, Greg began what he wanted to say, "Thank you, John, for what you did during dinner. The boys worry about me and it'll be a big relief to them thinking that I have somebody. I'm really sorry if that makes you uncomfortable but please know that it means the world to me. The boys are hardly ever here so I'm sure I-"

However, John had heard enough. Moving forward he reached out and captured Greg's lips with his own, fulfilling the need that had been building within him for weeks. Greg stiffened in shock but John soon found him relaxing and kissing back with incredible fervor. Running a hand down the man's muscular back, John firmly and aggressively squeezed his buttocks while at the same time thrusting his thigh between Greg's, smashing their bodies tightly together. His other hand gripped Greg's hair, allowing John to direct and dominate the breath stealing kiss.

As he moved his mouth away from Greg's and onto the man's earlobe, Greg let out a deep moan that sent shudders through John's body. John had always found the rich baritone of Greg's voice to be alluring but hearing it coming out in passionate gasps was almost too much. Moving his mouth from earlobe to neck, John thrust against Greg's thigh and found himself already hard and eager. It had not even occurred to him that he had not had sex or even a wank since he'd returned from Afghanistan but his body was joyously reveling in the feeling of another body against his.

After quickly pulling off Greg's clothes, John directed the man to lie on the bed while he undressed himself. Once he was down to only his dog tags, John climbed on top of Greg, propping himself up with his right elbow and sliding his left hand across Greg's chest. While he slowly lowered his hand, John pulled Greg into a deep kiss, at first sucking on his lip and then pushing in his tongue. Greg moaned into the kiss as John stroked him and played with his nipple.

When John pulled away from the kiss, he gave Greg a mischievous smile and pecked a small kiss to his nose. The doctor then slid down Greg's body and placed an identical kiss to the head of Greg's aching erection causing the detective to moan loudly. As John took more of him into his mouth, Greg's voice raised as he tried not to buck his hips or grab John's hair.

"Fuck, John! That's . . . you . . . I'm gonna," Greg rambled with increasing volume causing John to pull away momentarily and teasingly whisper, "If you're not quiet, the boys are gonna hear you."

Greg's eyes widened as he clamped a hand over his mouth in horror. John grinned wickedly and resumed his ministrations that were driving the detective wild. As Greg moaned and writhed he began biting into his hand to muffle his cries. When it became too much, Greg pulled John's head back making him slide out of his mouth with a loud _pop_. John looked up with momentary confusion but seeing the pleading look in Greg's eyes, he smiled and moved up to kiss him deeply. While he sucked at Greg's tongue, he took them both into hand and managed to bring them off simultaneously, making sure to stifle Greg's shouts.

Once John cleaned them up with his discarded t-shirt, they lay together on the bed in a blissful daze. After a few minutes of companionable silence, Greg turned to face John and lightly smacked his chest. "You utter bastard!" He hissed.

"What?" John laughed in confusion.

"You walk around in those bloody jumpers, drinking tea, reading the paper, and then you go and do something like . . . that," Greg huffed indignantly.

"That? That was nothing. When those boys go home, I'm gonna get some good lube and-"

Greg cut him off with a kiss and then nuzzled against his shoulder, moaning, "I'm too old for this."

John placed an affectionate kiss to the top of his head as he whispered, "No you're not."

* * *

The next day Mark and Luke's mother arrived to take them home. John could easily sense how nervous Greg and his son's were as they kept hinting that he didn't have to meet her if he didn't want to. However, John spent the last 15 years of his life staring death in the face and one ill-tempered church lady was not daunting in the least. The woman was small, 5' 3" at the most, and thin probably never more than 115 pounds in her entire life. She wore minimal make-up and plain, tasteful jewelry to accent her plain, tasteful outfit complete with a mid-calf skirt and sensible heels.

Upon entering the flat, she gave her boys a thorough once over and upon finding nothing to complain about, greeted Greg with a terse smile. Greg returned the smile with his own bland, fake hello – a skill probably developed over years of silent animosity – and gave his boys a goodbye hug. When the woman noticed John, her eyes visibly narrowed and she asked with a clipped voice, "Just who is this?"

Mark answered quickly, "This is Dad's boyfriend, John."

"Does _John_ have a last name?"

Greg stepped in with his best appeasing voice, "I'm sorry. Vivian, this is John Watson. He's renting the third bedroom. John, this is Vivian Quinn, my ex-wife."

Vivian stiffened her back and addressed John, "Well, Mr. Watson, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"It's _Dr._ Watson actually," John replied, unfazed, "and the pleasure is all mine."

John then stepped forward and held out his hand. The small woman hesitated, visibly uncomfortable and disgusted by contact with him. However, John remained unmoved and stared unapologetically into her eyes while she glared back. In all actuality, the standoff lasted only a few seconds but to everyone present, it seemed to go on for hours. The tension finally broke when Vivian reached out and weakly shook John's hand then pulling back as if he had burned her. She immediately turned and walked out the door, calling behind her, "Come along, boys."

Mark walked out first, saying, "Bye Dad, bye John."

Luke followed behind him but stopped and said softly, "Bye John." He then blushed, lowered his head, and followed his brother.

Once the door closed, Greg clasped John's head and told him, "That. was. Amazing." He then pulled him into a searing kiss that John eagerly reciprocated. When they pulled apart, Greg purred, "I don't have to be in to work until noon."

John wrapped his arms around Greg's waist and replied, "Is that so? Lucky me."

Before John could kiss him again, he heard his mobile sounding. He quickly fished it out of his pocket and read the text then grabbed his coat.

"It's Sherlock. Sorry, gotta go." John said as he flew out the front door.


	6. Chapter 6

"There's something different about you," Sherlock told John suspiciously. "This last week, you've been acting . . . different."

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock's brand of genius failed to extend to social niceties and polite conversation. John didn't particularly like playing Miss Manners but sometimes he couldn't resist teasing Sherlock after he'd been rather brilliant. Somehow, it humanized him. They had spent the week working on a case involving the mysterious deaths of a chess club. While not horribly dangerous or thrilling, it did provide Sherlock with a complex puzzle that left him oblivious to his surroundings. Since the case was finished and the competing chess team was in custody, Sherlock and John were sharing dim sum at a hole in the wall restaurant that made the best dumplings in town.

"You know, Sherlock, there are more polite ways to check in on a friend's wellbeing," John lectured.

Sherlock sneered in disgust, "I don't see why it matters _how_ I inquire after you so long as you understand what I mean."

"How about: how are you doing, John? Your hair looks nice, did you have it cut? What've you been up to this week?" John suggested in a heavily mocking tone.

Sherlock grumbled, "You just seem . . . happier. The pain in your shoulder is less pronounced and your tremor is almost non-existent. You look forward to going home more than you used to and you've taken to wearing light cologne. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were dating a rather attractive woman but you haven't had time for -"

Sherlock trailed off as the pieces fell into place and he gaped open mouth for a second before spouting in an accusing voice, "You're shagging Lestrade!"

John giggled at Sherlock's indignation and decided to tease him further, "A week, Sherlock, it took you an entire bloody week. Donovan figured it out in five minutes."

To hide his embarrassment, Sherlock snapped back, "Yes, well, I was a bit preoccupied doing her job. If it weren't for me, those idiots would have ruled the deaths an accident. Excuse me if I'm not distracted by office gossip." After a silent moment, Sherlock asked with annoyance, "Besides, why didn't you tell me yourself?"

John shrugged and took a sip of his tea, "I didn't think you'd care."

"Of course I care. It's only prudent to know these things about each other," Sherlock answered uncomfortably.

"If that's the case, what about you? Do you have a girlfriend?"

"Girlfriend, no, not really my area," Sherlock mumbled while shifting in his seat.

"Boyfriend then?"

"I suppose I consider myself _married_ to my work," Sherlock answered with a finality that sought to end the conversation.

John took another sip of his tea and thought for a moment before replying, "Seems a bit lonely."

"It used to be," Sherlock said softly, almost at a whisper.

The two men suddenly locked eyes and John found himself momentarily without the ability to speak. The intense gaze eventually broke and they finished their meal in relative quiet.

* * *

It was three days later when John returned from the grocery store to find the door to the flat not only unlocked but slightly ajar. On instinct he set down the bags and reached behind him for his pistol, but then remembered that he did not go shopping armed. For a second he wondered if he should phone Greg and call for backup or take the more dangerous approach and enter the flat alone. Not for the first time, John chose the plan that made his heart pound the fastest.

As he cautiously pushed the door open the rest of the way, John saw the unmistakable form of Sherlock's arch nemesis perched in Greg's armchair. As before, he was wearing an immaculate three piece suit and his umbrella was resting next to him. He greeted John with a smug smile as if to say _yes I invaded your home and no I'm not sorry_. Once again, John decided tightlipped animosity was his best approach so he gathered his grocery bags and entered the flat, heading directly for the kitchen.

For several minutes, John completely ignored the intruder and focused on putting away his food. When it became apparent that the former soldier was not going to give in to the intended intimidation, the man finally spoke, "Dr. Watson, while I'm impressed at your composure and would rather enjoy seeing how long it takes you to acknowledge me, I'm afraid that I have another appointment this afternoon. So why don't we drop the charade and chat then I'll be on my way."

John's eyes briefly flicked up toward his bedroom causing the man to sigh loudly, "There's no need for you to retrieve your B.A. Browning L9A1 that you keep stored in the right middle drawer of your desk, I'm not a threat."

John cocked his head in irritation and lowered his voice, saying, "If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't need a pistol to do it."

The man only smiled politely as he replied, "I suppose you wouldn't but it did help when you used it to kill Sergeant Reginald White with a single shot through the heart over a distance of 50 yards, very impressive by the way."

Inwardly, John's stomach dropped but his face remained stoic as he asked, "So, is that what you're here for, to blackmail me?"

"Gracious no," the man scoffed. "Your precise and well timed disposal of Sgt. White was a great service to this city and it was seen to that no physical evidence remains of the incident. I'm here to speak with you about Sherlock Holmes."

Something inside John shifted uncomfortably as he found himself wanting to throw the man out by the collar for even mentioning his friend's name. However, John had no idea what kind of backup there was or what information he was about to be given. Instead, he cautiously sat in the armchair across from the intruder and nodded for him to continue.

"It probably comes as no surprise that Sherlock has grown rather fond of you," the man began, causing John to nearly sputter in disbelief. "That puts you in quite a position of power. There are very few people in this world that Sherlock listens to and if you, for whatever reason, were to advise him unwisely, it could lead to disaster."

"I think you overestimate my influence. Sherlock does what he wants and I really have no say in it."

At that, the man tutted playfully before answering, "Now we both know that's not quite true. What I want is for you to take some time and consider if you need Sherlock as much as he needs you."

With a huff of anger, John snapped back, "What the _hell_ is that supposed to mean?"

Instead of answering, the man smiled pompously and the two sat in tense silence that was only broken when the front door opened. When Greg entered, he hung up his coat, took off his jacket, and leisurely cracked his back as he spoke, "Hi John. Were you able to get to the store today? I think we were out of milk. You wouldn't _believe_ how much paperwork I had. I think my inbox . . . oh bloody hell!" Greg stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed the man in his armchair.

"Hello, Greg, I hope you're doing well," the intruder asked while grazing his eyes across the detective's frame.

Greg groaned loudly before responding, "What are you doing here, Mycroft?"

John looked between them, confused, and asked, "Do you know him?"

With an exhausted tone, Greg replied, "Yeah, he's Sherlock's brother."

"His brother!" John sputtered and then turned to Mycroft to say, "So when you say you're concerned about Sherlock, you're actually concerned about him."

"I worry about him _constantly_ ," Mycroft answered as if he carried a great burden. However, John noted that his eyes never left Greg and followed him as the detective moved into the kitchen. "I heard your divorce was finalized but it was a terrible shame that you didn't receive custody of the children."

Greg's back was to the living as he looked in the fridge but John could see his shoulders tense. Mycroft, most unwisely, continued, "If you'd like, I can see about having that rectified."

Greg spun around furiously and asked in a sharp voice, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm merely paying a visit to Dr. Watson since he and my brother have become so close recently."

Greg rolled his eyes and crossed his arms in irritation as he replied, "Is that what this is about? You've come to bully John into leaking information. I bet you even had the flat searched, didn't you? John, did you let him in or was he waiting for you?" Before John could open his mouth, Greg continued, "No, you don't have to tell me. Mycroft, listen carefully: John is not interested in Sherlock for money, drugs, or sex. I know it may seem impossible to you that there is no ulterior motive, but he honestly enjoys your brother's company and likes solving crimes with him."

Mycroft started to respond but Greg cut him off, "Now I realize that you control most of the British government and an arrest would never stick, but know that if you ever break into my flat and try to threaten me or my boyfriend again, I will shoot you. I believe you can see yourself out."

It was brief but John noticed Mycroft's eyes fall at Greg's harsh words in such a way that he almost felt sorry for the man. However, his smug expression was almost immediately back in place as he stood and adjusted his waist coat, retrieved his umbrella, and cleared his throat before saying, "Yes, well John, please keep in mind what we discussed and hopefully we should meet again some time. Detective Lestrade, I apologize for upsetting you with my visit and please know that no harm was intended. Good afternoon, gentlemen."

Mycroft then strode out of the flat as Greg slumped down on the sofa. After several minutes of silence in which John readjusted his world view or at least his view of Sherlock, Greg let out a long sigh and spoke, "Was I too severe with him?"

John couldn't help but smile; only Greg would come home from a long day at work, find an intruder in his flat, and then wonder if he had hurt his feelings.

"Perhaps a bit, but I'm sure he was long overdue for a good dressing down," John answered. "Why does Sherlock refer to his brother as his arch nemesis?"

Greg chuckled in response, "Sherlock has a flare for the dramatic but then again so does Mycroft. From what I can guess, it's a complex relationship so Sherlock tries to simplify it by thinking of them as enemies. In all actuality, it couldn't be further from the truth; Mycroft is one of the most protective siblings I've ever seen and you've met my sons."

John moved from his armchair over to the sofa next to Greg and urged him to continue.

"Sherlock was using heavily when I met him - cocaine, heroin, whatever he could get his hands on – and it was only with Mycroft's help that we were able to get him clean," Greg spoke as he rested his head on John's shoulder. "As much as he irritates me, I will admit that he faced the problem head on - no secluded rehab, no sending in hired help, no stiff lipped ignoring – instead he was there, himself, helping Sherlock through it. So because he cares about Sherlock I put up with the house searches, occasional wiretapping, and general creepiness. There's something about the way he looks at me, it's like . . ."

"A wolf eyeing up a rabbit?" John finished with a smirk. Greg groaned loudly and buried his face in John's shoulder. John softly bit his ear and purred, "Not that I can blame him. You're one of the most gorgeous men I've ever met."

John's hand slid down the front of Greg's white button down and palmed over his growing erection. Greg turned and hooked his leg over so that he was straddling John's thigh and leaned in for a languid kiss. Eventually, John pulled back enough so he could pepper kisses along Greg's jaw and neck while telling him, "The way I see it, we have two options for tonight. Option 1: I suck you off here to tide you over while I make dinner. Afterwards, I take you to bed and give you a proper shag. Option 2: I bend you over the table right now, fuck you rough and hard 'til I come in your ass then I order takeaway."

"If I ever tried to explain to people just how filthy you are, they would never believe me," Greg chuckled, hands threading through John's hair. "How about I lay down, close my eyes, and you surprise me?"

"I like the way you think," John replied as he stood so Greg could unbutton his shirt and stretch out. After taking a moment to decide what to do, John walked over to Greg's jacket and fished out the detective's handcuffs then with a smirk went back to the sofa.


	7. Chapter 7

"Oh, John, I'm getting close," Greg called between breathy moans.

John raised Greg's hips and adjusted his thrusts so that he was hitting the man's prostate with each movement. In response, Greg's head fell back against the pillow and his hands scrabbled harder at John's back. The detective always looked the most beautiful right at that moment as sweat was beading at his forehead, his deep baritone voice was rumbling in ecstasy, and John could feel the pleasure he was giving him.

That was John's biggest turn on: giving pleasure. Every person was different, they all had their needs, desires, and John loved to figure them out. Greg had a masochistic streak a mile long, which John had deduced before he had even touched him. The bitter sham of a marriage, hiding his sexuality, and of course cooperating with Sherlock were all glaring clues that the man reveled in denial and withholding. That was why John, when he heard Greg rapidly approaching orgasm, pulled out and swiftly pinned the man's arms above his head.

"What the hell?" Greg sputtered in confusion.

John grinned wickedly and pressed the length of their bodies together, grinding their cocks against each other slowly. Greg did not try to pull away, he never did, instead he gazed intently into John's eyes and begged, "Please, John, I can't take it."

"Oh, I think you can," John whispered against Greg's ear. "I think you want me to tie you up and leave you like this all night."

"Don't you dare," Greg commanded with zero conviction. Slowly, he spread his legs and wrapped them around John's thighs then lowered his voice to say, "Please, John, I need you."

Moving his hands from Greg's wrists, John clasped the man's face and placed an achingly slow kiss to his lips before saying, "Since you asked so nice . . ."

John finally pushed himself back in and pounded his lover until the man had nearly lost consciousness.

Once John had cleaned them both up and they had arranged themselves under the duvet, Greg quickly fell asleep with an arm draped over John's chest. However, John stayed awake and softly carded his fingers through Greg's silver hair with one hand and rubbed the familiar metal of his dog tags with the other. During all his years in the army, John had somehow developed a fantasy that when he returned home he would find someone to give them to.

When he thinks back on it, he wonders if it's silly to give someone his ID tags as a sign of love and affection. In the army, they serve a practical purpose but he wondered if giving them to a significant other was a rather unromantic sign of possessiveness. He could just imagine the look on his ex-girlfriend's face if he put those around her neck after telling her he had a surprise. Maybe it would be different with a man? Throughout the last ten years, he certainly had a vast number of male lovers but they were military flings and never serious relationships. For the past week, he had been wondering if he should give them to Greg.

Their relationship, while unconventional due to their work and living situation, was warm and comfortable. Whereas the sex was consistently mind blowing, everything else was familiar and relaxed. There was no pretense of romance or courting, instead they lived as good friends, great flatmates, and satisfied lovers. In many ways, John supposed it was an ideal marriage. That was why he could not understand why he was so reluctant to give the man his dog tags. Greg would easily understand their significance and probably wear them without fuss, but John could never bring himself to do it. With a tired exhale, John took the chain off and set them on his bedside table.

* * *

"Dr. Watson, it's a pleasure to finally meet you. Please have a seat."

John tentatively sat at the desk across from two very eager looking middle aged men in suits. They had already showered him with business cards and handshakes insisting that John call them Ron and Leonard.

"I'm still a bit confused as to why I'm here," John responded as he sat. "You said you read my blog and want to publish it?"

"No, not exactly," Ron replied. "We've read your blog and want to hire you as a columnist for the paper. Your blog will continue as is but what we want are thoughts, opinions, and stories from Dr. John Watson."

"Isn't that what my blog is?" John asked, still confused.

"Actually, no," Leonard jumped in. "In your blog, you mostly write about Sherlock Holmes and while he's fascinating, we're interested in _you_ , our readers are interested in you."

"We've received hundreds of letters and emails over the past couple weeks specifically requesting information about John Watson," Ron said while producing a stack of letters to prove his point. "You wouldn't believe how many of these requests come from military personnel. It seems you're a bit of a celebrity within the army."

John blushed, hoping they weren't going to mention his nickname and the reputation that came with it. "Sherlock's the brilliant detective, why don't you ask him?" John asked, puzzled why they would talk to him and not the man himself.

The two men exchanged a look and Ron replied hesitantly, "We've read over his website, the Science of Deduction, and frankly we find him a bit off-putting."

John instinctively began to frown, causing Leonard to scramble in reply, "I'm sure he's a great detective, a genius, and everything else you say he is, but he's not exactly personable. Our readers want someone to connect with and they've very clearly connected with you. They want to read what you have to say about the army, being a doctor, living in London, being wounded, actually anything you would want to write about. The crime solving is just one aspect of John Watson and we wouldn't want Sherlock Holmes to overshadow that."

While John sat in stunned silence, trying to take in what he was being told, Ron took over, "We'll start you off with one column a week in the Sunday edition, but you will still be technically full time and receive the corresponding salary."

It was never something John had even considered, being a writer, and in fact he was thinking about finding a job at small clinic since he could no longer operate with his damaged shoulder. However, he knew it was not his decision alone to make. "I'm going to have to think about this," John replied still deep in thought.

"That's fine," Leonard answered with a grin. Despite John's cold attitude and stoic face, both men seemed to know he was considering it. "Take all the time you need and get back to us when you're ready."

John nodded and stood, leaving the office. He knew before he did anything he would have to talk to Sherlock. The opportunity for which arose that night when he was suddenly woken by a shake to his shoulder and an irritated voice, saying, "John, wake up!"

As John's sleep-filled eyes slowly came into focus, he noticed his vision was filled with Sherlock's pale face. Wondering if it were a dream, he reached out and gently touched the man's cheek.

In a tight whisper but without moving away, Sherlock asked, "John, what are you doing?"

Lazily, John replied, "Just checking. What are _you_ doing _here_?"

"The Bergman Case, I figured it out," Sherlock announced, suddenly forgetting he was supposed to be quiet.

His voice roused Greg from his sleep on the other side of the bed and the exhausted DI mumbled, "Bloody hell! What time is it?"

John leaned over and placed a comforting kiss to Greg's forehead, telling him, "It's just Sherlock, go back to sleep."

Greg murmured indignantly and rolled over, pulling the duvet up to his chin. When John sat up, he looked around for any clothes nearby and when he saw none, gazed up at Sherlock and nodded at the door. However, Sherlock only stared forward with an odd expression on his face that John could not completely make out because of the darkness of the room. John sighed and decided anyone that invaded his bedroom in the middle of the night had no right to complain about nudity. John rose from the bed and nonchalantly walked across the room to pull on a pair of track pants then grabbed a slightly shocked Sherlock and took him downstairs.

Once they had entered the living room, John began, "Sherlock, what the hell is so important you have to come wake me up in the middle of the night?"

"The Bergman Case from last week," Sherlock said as he gazed around the room, no doubt analyzing every aspect of John and Greg's life. "I know what we were missing."

"The Bergman Case? The two year old jewelry theft that you rated a 4? Why on Earth couldn't you wait until morning to tell me?" John asked with exasperation.

Sherlock pursed his lips and flopped into John's armchair, answering petulantly, "It was very interesting and I thought you'd want to know right away."

"Why didn't you just call or text me?"

"I did," Sherlock looked away as he replied quietly. "When you didn't answer, I became concerned that something may have happened, which I now realize was foolish because you merely left your mobile in your trouser's that are strewn across this room along with the rest of your and Lestrade's clothing."

John only then noticed the mess they had made earlier when they were snogging and stripping each other on the way to the bedroom. With an embarrassed flush, John sat in the other armchair and took a moment to observe Sherlock. The detective was fidgeting uncomfortably and had his head turned, not meeting John's eyes. He seemed so much younger at that moment than John had ever seen him. With his normally arrogant attitude and nearly omniscient deductive skills, John easily forgot that the man had serious emotional issues that had likely never been addressed and possessed a childlike ignorance of what most people consider the most basic knowledge.

"Sherlock, I've been offered a job," John announced, deciding he may as well get the conversation over with at a time when things could not possibly become more awkward.

Sherlock whipped his head back to stare at John with something akin to fear in his eyes, "What kind of job, a hospital, a surgery?"

"Actually, a newspaper wants me to write a weekly column. They're offering a decent salary and I'm considering accepting. Is that something you'd be comfortable with? I won't do it if you say no."

Something in Sherlock's eyes softened as he took in John's words. After clearing his throat, he replied, "Right, so you'd be doing most of your work from home?" John nodded and Sherlock paused before continuing, "That's . . . fine. Yes, I think that will be fine."

"Really?" John asked having expected some sort of resistance. "It won't be the same as my blog, I won't be writing up cases, but I probably will mention you from time to time. Are you alright with that?"

"John, you write whatever you like about me on the internet, a column in a dying medium is hardly going to make much difference. If someone is willing to pay you for it and you don't have to spend extended time in an office, I don't see any reason why not."

"Great," John replied and then clapped his hands together. "So tell me about the Bergman Case."

As Sherlock described the fibers he found in the safety deposit box, John listened with rapt attention and could not keep a smile from growing on his face. He could not explain it, but Sherlock's brilliance always seemed to radiate off him and fill John with the oddest warmth, a feeling so addicting, he could hardly imagine himself living without it.


	8. Chapter 8

John entered the posh flat after buzzing up to Sherlock for nearly five minutes. His suspicions that the delayed response had to do with him not going to the bank with Sherlock that morning were confirmed when the detective greeted him coldly with only a curt nod. He was led into the bedroom to find a man, a very dead man, lying there with a bullet to the head.

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked with a wave at the body.

 _Another test_ , John thought as he carefully examined the scene and then the room. After gathering his observations, he asked, "Was there any forced entry or word on intruders in the building?"

"No," Sherlock said, a gleam of excitement dawning in his eyes. "In fact, the room and flat were locked from the inside."

John nodded but then paused to ask, "How did you get in?"

"Balcony," Sherlock replied casually.

John rolled his eyes but did not feel like pursuing the response, instead he carried on with his analysis, "Victim is in his mid to late 30s, a successful business man recently returned from a trip abroad, and does not spend much time in his flat. The cause of death is a single gunshot wound to the head, there is no sign of a struggle, and the pistol next to him was recently fired. This looks very much like a suicide."

"Is it?" Sherlock inquired with a raised eyebrow.

"No," John answered earning him a small smile from Sherlock.

"Why not?"

"The gun is positioned next to his right hand but he is very much left-handed," John replied then almost immediately added, "and I'm sorry I didn't go to the bank with you this morning but it's Greg's day off and I wanted to have a nice lie-in."

Sherlock's delighted expression quickly turned sour as he took out his mobile and phoned Scotland Yard, asking for DI Dimmock. While waiting for the police to arrive, John tried to pry information from a very uncooperative Sherlock.

"What could have possibly happened at the bank that led you to breaking into a dead man's flat?" John asked, hoping to get to the point.

With an exasperated sigh, Sherlock replied, "He worked at the bank."

"So he was reported missing?"

"No," Sherlock answered flatly.

"Then why were you called?"

"A former acquaintance from university works there and called me to investigate a break-in," Sherlock said with an impatient tone as if he were explaining the situation to a dim child.

"And this man was the one whose office was broken into?"

"No, but whoever did it, left a message for him."

"What kind of message?"

"Cryptic."

John's patience finally snapped as he shouted, "Damn it, Sherlock! I feel like I'm interrogating you. Either tell me everything or I'm going home and you can deal with this by yourself." They both knew it was an empty threat.

Sherlock let out another dramatic sigh as he answered, "I will have to explain everything once Dimmock arrives so there's no point in saying it twice. If you insist on entering an investigation halfway through then don't be upset when you fall behind."

At that, John threw his hands in the air and left the bedroom so as not to shout something he'd regret. The two said nothing to each other as they waited for Scotland Yard to show up. Although it was only a few minutes, it seemed to stretch for a lifetime as John began to wonder how one person could wind him up so easily. Everywhere else in his life, he's easy going, comforting, and reliable, but with Sherlock, he feels like a short fuse. One minute he wants to punch the man and the next he wants to hug him. No matter what, though, he could count on Sherlock to make his blood pump and heart race whether through an intense mystery or just a sharp conversation.

John was deep in thought and jumped at the harsh sound of the door buzzer when Dimmock and his team arrived. Once they entered the flat, John had put on an expression he had perfected in the army that said _I'm glad to see you but there is a dead body nearby_. Dimmock looked exceptionally irritated at being called in by Sherlock but broke into a wide smile upon seeing John.

"Dr. Watson, how have you been?" the detective asked with a friendly handshake.

"Good but I could do without this cold weather. There are days I actually miss the desert."

Dimmock chuckled pleasantly before asking, "How's Lestrade? Hope he's enjoying his day off. The man would work himself to death if no one looked out for him."

"Don't worry, he's taking it easy today, doctor's orders," John answered with a wink.

At that, Dimmock laughed even louder and then patted John's arm as he said, "By the way, I loved your article this week on the NHS, it was fascinating. Also, my girlfriend wants to meet you so you and Greg need to come round one of these nights for dinner."

They were suddenly interrupted by a harsh, fake cough from Sherlock before he spoke with clear annoyance, "I hate to break up your little chat but there _is_ a crime you need to investigate."

John noticed that not only was Sherlock irritated but he seemed to be glowering fiercely at the young detective inspector. Dimmock returned the hostile look as he headed toward the bedroom and told Sherlock, "I swear to God, Holmes, if you breaking into this flat disrupted any evidence, I'm having you arrested."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and replied, "Then who would solve all your crimes and save your department from complete and utter embarrassment? Try not to bite the hand that feeds you."

With a flourish of his coat, Sherlock directed them into the bedroom and explained what exactly had led him there. After examining the scene, Dimmock stood back and shook his head as he announced, "Other than the gun on the right side, I don't see any evidence of this being a murder. Dr. Watson, you were in the military, isn't it possible that someone could be left-handed and shoot with his right?"

"Yes, it is possible but unlikely in Van Coon's case. He's not a trained marksman and would unlikely shoot with his less dominant hand without being taught," John said confidently. He went on to add, "There's also the circumstantial evidence such as there being no note, no signs of distress, and the fact that he locked himself inside his room. He wasn't depressed, he was scared and trying to hide."

Dimmock nodded his understanding but John was not finished, "However, all of that is a moot point because you already have Sherlock saying this is a murder. You should know better than anyone that he does not base his conclusions off hunches and when he says a crime has taken place, that's because it has. After all the cases he's solved, I had hoped that would've been apparent by now."

The young inspector had the decency to look abashed as he replied, "You're right, I'm sorry, Dr. Watson. We'll let you know if anything else comes of the investigation and we'll need to collect your statements eventually."

Without saying anything, Sherlock suddenly turned and left the room. John followed after and caught up with him outside. Sherlock seemed a bit shaken and for once was struggling with something to say. Without looking at John, he finally stammered, "What you said back there . . . that was . . . good."

"Yes, well, it's about time they start listening to you instead of treating you like some amateur," John replied and then added, "I like Dimmock, he's an alright bloke, but he's like so many others from the Yard that don't know when to let go of their pride and admit that you know more than they do."

Sherlock smiled awkwardly and softly spoke, "I couldn't have said it better myself."

* * *

John was confused as to why Sherlock insisted he come with, but they went to a very posh restaurant so Sherlock could inform his former university acquaintance of what they had found. Sherlock confidently strode up to the man's table and announced, "Sebastian, I need to talk to you about Van Coon."

Sebastian, who was sitting with a young, handsome man, looked up with irritation and replied, "Can't that wait until tomorrow, Sherlock?"

"I figured that since he was murdered this morning, you'd like to know about it as soon as possible," Sherlock answered calmly.

Sebastian nearly spat out his wine and stood quickly, directing Sherlock and John toward the toilets. Once inside, he said with a harsh voice, "Just what is going on?"

"Edward Van Coon was murdered in his flat this morning by the same person that broke into the bank and vandalized the painting. I believe he was involved in something illegal, do you know anything about that?" Sherlock asked coldly.

Sebastian leant against the sinks and groaned, "Edward was good at his job so I never asked questions. There was a time when he lost 5 million but made it back within a week. In this business, if you're producing then people turn the other way. If he was involved in something then no one at the bank would know. He spoke fluent Mandarin and had good relations in Hong Kong so I put him on the China accounts. I think he was also screwing his secretary, as much as a cliché as it is."

"And that's it?"

"Yeah, that's it," Sebastian answered mockingly. He then turned his attention to John and asked, "Who's this then?"

"This is my friend, John Watson. John this is Sebastian Wilkes."

"Friend?" Sebastian replied with a raised eyebrow.

"And colleague," John added, trying to lend himself some credibility. "I'm an ex army doctor so I know my way around gunshot wounds. This was an execution made to look like a suicide, definitely professional. Mr. Van Coon seems to have made a powerful enemy."

"That's a relief," Sebastian said with a smile and a hearty chuckle. "For a second there, I thought Sherlock had made himself a real friend but it makes sense that this is professional. In university, we all hated him. He would rattle off exactly what everyone had been doing and who they were shagging then call us all idiots. But he does these little _tricks_ and can see things that normal people are too busy to notice. However, I suppose he's found a calling with this detective business, that's why I asked him to investigate."

John glanced at Sherlock and saw the oddest expression of embarrassment and timidity. Suddenly, a glimpse of a young Sherlock being tormented by bullies came through and John felt an urge to throttle the smug banker.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry to hear about Edward, I really am, but please find out how they got into the bank. A security breach like this is quite a mess," Sebastian said while adjusting his tie in the mirror. He then looked back and smirked, saying, "Tell me Sherlock, you saw my date, is he interested in sex or am I just wasting my time?"

Sherlock hesitated making Sebastian laugh again, "I'm joking, mate. Listen, you two have a good night and get back to me when you've solved this."

In response, Sherlock smiled stiffly and left the room with John behind him. Suddenly, John stopped and looked back at the door. "Sherlock, why don't you wait outside, I need to use the loo," John said with a pat to Sherlock's back. The detective shrugged and walked out as John re-entered the restroom. Seeing Sebastian washing his hands, John asked in an irritated voice, "Oi, what's your problem?"

Sebastian turned to face John with a look of confusion as he said, "Pardon?"

"Didn't you realize that what you were saying to Sherlock was not right? He's doing you a favor and the least you could do is not humiliate him like that," John said angrily.

A wide grin stretched across Sebastian's face as he replied, "So you're _not_ shagging him yet. I was wondering why someone would spend their free time with Sherlock. A word of advice, Sherlock's favorite is a seven percent cocaine solution, but if you want him to put out, heroin is the way to go." John could barely stop his mouth from falling open as Sebastian continued, "We all learned that the fastest way into Sherlock Holmes' pants is to shoot him up and wait. When he gets to just the right high, he will -and did- spread his legs for anyone."

John's entire body seemed to go numb with a rage that threatened to consume his entire being. Sebastian, the arrogant bastard, seemed not to notice and handed over a business card, saying, "If you need a supplier, I know how to get the best stuff." He then smiled again and casually left the restroom.

With itching fingers, John utilized every ounce of self-control he possessed to stop himself from reaching for the gun stowed away in the back of his jeans and committing murder in a restaurant full of witnesses. Some part of him even concluded that shooting Sebastian would be too light a sentence and had a strong desire to see him tortured slowly instead. However, John took a couple minutes and composed himself so he was eventually able to leave the toilets and join Sherlock outside.

As they were walking, John asked Sherlock, "Greg and I are going out for drinks tonight, why don't you join us?"

Sherlock looked back at him, surprised for a second and replied, "No, thank you. I'll be working on the case tonight."

"Are you sure?"

Sherlock nodded and gave a forced smile, "Positive but I'll be sure to tell you if anything important happens."

"Alright, but know that you're welcome anytime," John said, sincerely wishing that Sherlock would've said yes.


	9. Chapter 9

John watched as Greg sipped his coffee and read over the morning newspaper. Sometimes he found himself lost in those moments, noticing just how beautiful his lover was with his olive skin and silver hair accentuating his handsome face. Setting down his own cup, John walked over behind the detective and slid his arms around his shoulders, kissing his neck. Greg moaned happily and leaned back into the embrace.

"A murder inside a locked room, made to look like a suicide, and Sherlock found the body by swinging in over the balcony; I can say with all honesty that I do not envy Dimmock this case," Greg said with a kiss to John's hand.

"Speaking of Dimmock," John said as he took his seat next to Greg. "I was a bit harsh with him yesterday. Maybe I should go with you this morning and apologize."

"What did he do?" Greg asked suspiciously.

"Not much actually, he was just doubting Sherlock again and I set him straight," John answered with a sigh. "I get tired of everyone picking on him all the time. Even though he says he's a sociopath, he does have emotions. I'm starting to think he had a rough time growing up, you know being different, so he probably pretends to be above it all as some sort of defense mechanism."

At that, Greg's face softened and he reached out, squeezing John's hand and said, "He's lucky to have met you."

They were both quiet for another few minutes until John nonchalantly announced, "When we get to the Yard, if you're not too busy, I'm going to give you a blowjob from under your desk."

In shock, Greg spat his coffee out over the paper as John suppressed a grin.

* * *

When they arrived to NSY, John sought out DI Dimmock and began his apology, "Look mate, sorry I snapped yesterday. It wasn't right for me to say that in front of your team."

Dimmock cocked his head in surprise and shook John's proffered hand, saying, "Not a problem, you were right anyway, the bullet didn't match his gun so it was a murder. In fact, there was another almost identical murder last night. I was just about to call Sherlock to tell him, but I guess this saves me the time."

"Why don't you call him anyway; it would not go over well if he thought you came to me first," John said earning him a raised eyebrow from Dimmock. John explained, "It's a pride thing."

Dimmock nodded knowingly and added, "Hey, how about dinner tonight at my place?"

"Sounds great. I'll go ask Greg now," John replied with a smile.

* * *

Greg tried to stifle his moans and not writhe too much since John would not let him lock his door or close his blinds. Seated at his desk, the detective inspector hoped no one would notice a slight flush in his cheeks or his faster than usual breathing, and he thanked his stars that John was small and his desk extended all the way to the ground. Just when he thought he was getting close to finishing, his office phone rang and nearly gave him a heart attack.

"Lestrade . . . yes he's here. I'll send him over," Greg said and slid a hand onto John's head. "Sherlock's arrived so you need to go meet him in Dimmock's office."

John pulled his mouth off of Lestrade with a loud _pop_ and gazed up at him, saying, "Then I suppose I should stop what I'm doing and just go."

"You bastard," Greg whispered. "You stop now and I'll have you locked up."

"I think I might like that," John responded with a purr but opened his mouth and continued anyway.

* * *

When John arrived at Dimmock's office, Sherlock was looking exceptionally annoyed and probably had not slept at all that night. When he noticed John enter, he began rattling off the information about the case, saying, "The victim was a reporter, just returned from a trip to Hong Kong. He was found just like Van Coon in a . . . " Sherlock stopped when he had taken in John's appearance and groaned, "Really, John? In his office?"

Dimmock, Donovan, and two other officers realized what Sherlock was referring to and broke out into hysterical laughter. Donovan patted John on the arm, saying between laughs, "You dog! No wonder Greg's looking so happy all the time."

John shrugged his shoulders sarcastically and smiled widely, but when he glanced over at Sherlock, he noticed the man's face was blank and his jaw stiff.

* * *

After examining the reporter's flat and finding another glyph at the library, Sherlock informed John that they needed to consult a professional. As they walked toward the National Gallery, John could not pass up the opportunity to poke some fun at Sherlock, "This must be so awkward for you, asking for help. Does this mean that you actually don't know everything?"

However, he immediately regretted those words when Sherlock flashed him an irritated glare and responded, "I do what it takes to solve the crime."

John cringed at the harsh tone and the two kept walking in silence. Once they reached the gallery, John was surprised when instead of entering, Sherlock directed him to the back of the building where a young man was spraying graffiti on the wall. The man actually recognized Sherlock and nodded his acknowledgement.

Holding out the photo on his phone, Sherlock asked, "What can you tell me about this?"

The painter absently handed his can over to John as he took hold of the mobile to inspect it carefully.

"It's a high velocity paint used very quickly, probably a matter of seconds. I don't recognize the marker but I'll ask around," the tagger said, surprising John with his helpful attitude.

However, that slight admiration quickly faded when two police officers rounded the corner and John suddenly found himself alone, holding a can of spray paint in front of a freshly made tag. Although he did not want to do it, John knew exactly what he had to say. Looking around in confusion, John shouted angrily, "Where'd the little bastard go?"

One of the officers asked accusingly, "What do you think you're doing?"

John sighed dramatically, "I was trying to get an interview with this punk tagger but he took off."

"Are you a reporter?" The officer asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Sort of," John said and took out his wallet, handing over his license and military ID. "The name's John Watson and I'm what you would call a professional writer doing _amateur_ detective work. My partner, who also seems to have scarpered, and I are working a case involving some messages left in graffiti. The officer in charge is DI Dimmock from the Yard."

Relief flooded through John as the officer nodded and turned to the man next to him, "This is that doctor that wrote the column on the organ stealing. He works with that odd bloke, the one that solves all those crimes."

The other officer's eyes widened as he exclaimed, "Oh, you're the one that caught the serial killer cabbie!"

The first officer handed back John's IDs and smiled brightly as he gushed, "My wife is a huge fan of yours, reads your blog and everything. Is it true you were shot in Afghanistan?"

"Unfortunately, yes. It pretty much ruined my career as a surgeon and that's how I got mixed up with Sherlock," John said, hating himself for such shameless schmoozing. Taking out his notebook, he continued, "Since I'll probably be writing an article about this, what do you two as police think about all this graffiti stuff?"

While the officers prattled on about their loathing of Banksy and poser street vandals, John nodded idiotically and pretended to take notes. After some handshakes and promises of future pints, John reminded the policemen that there was a graffiti painting murderer on the loose and he should get back to work. Not knowing where Sherlock buggered off to, John headed to NSY. While there, he met with Dimmock who gave him the reporter's journal.

* * *

While following a note he found in the journal, John literally ran into Sherlock outside an unassuming shop called the Lucky Cat. Sherlock rattled off the clues that led him there and then asked John how he managed to find his way. John replied, "He wrote down the name and address in his journal."

"Dull and here I thought you had actually figured something out for yourself," Sherlock sneered.

John sighed. Apparently Sherlock was still in his foul mood from the morning.

As they perused the trinkets, John's hands lingered over a particularly beautiful but inexpensive hair clip shaped like a bumble bee. The shopkeeper noticed him admiring it and commented, "That clip is one of a kind, my daughter made it. Your wife will love it."

John gave a sly grin. Picking up the clip, he turned to Sherlock and asked, "What do you think, Darling?" He proceeded to pin back a section of Sherlock's curls and softly ran his hand over the detective's cheek as he cooed, "You're right, it looks lovely. I'll take it and no need to wrap it up, he'll wear it home."

Sherlock tried to frown but he was obviously fighting back a wide smile that finally resulted in him replying, "You do spoil me, John."

Once they had left the shop in much better spirits than they had entered it, Sherlock directed them to a small restaurant across the street. Sherlock had fastened the hair clip on the lapel of his coat and would run his fingers over it every few minutes. As they discussed the case, the symbols, which they learned were ancient Chinese numbers, and sipped their tea, Sherlock focused in on the flat across the street, realizing that something was amiss. Before he knew it, John was watching Sherlock scamper up a fire escape and disappear into some stranger's flat.

John waited out front for Sherlock to buzz him in and when it was obvious that the detective intended to leave him down there, he began to shout angrily, "Sherlock, let me up there! We're supposed to be colleagues and you don't leave a colleague behind!"

After a couple minutes, the buzzer sounded and a strained, desperate voice came over the intercom, calling a weak, "John."

With a flash of panic, John bolted up the stairs as fast as he could and drew his gun. Upon entering the flat, he saw Sherlock with a cloaked figure behind him, strangling him. Sherlock's face was beginning to turn slightly blue and he was having trouble focusing his eyes, but seemed to be aware that John had made it. In his most authoritative, military voice, John commanded, "Let him go or I _will_ shoot you!"

The attacker quickly released Sherlock and shoved him toward John, fleeing before the doctor could line up a shot. Sherlock collapsed into John's arms and briefly lost consciousness. John laid him on the floor, checking his vitals and asked urgently, "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Soon Sherlock's eyes opened and he gasped for air, flailing as John tried to calm him down. With soothing motions, John ran his hands through Sherlock's hair and looked over his neck for damage. When Sherlock could breathe again, he gazed up into John's concerned eyes and placed a hand on the man's cheek. Tentatively he leaned up and pressed his lips against John's. John felt himself so overcome with relief that Sherlock was alive and startled by the deep affection held in those grey eyes that he allowed himself to kiss him back.

Suddenly remembering where he was and who he was with, John pulled back and scrambled to his feet. Sherlock sighed and lay still for a moment before rising and saying, "Right, let's find out where Soo Lin is."


	10. Chapter 10

Books. So many damned books. John sighed, thinking to himself, _why couldn't these smugglers be illiterate football fans?_ In what came as a complete shock to John, the tagger who had left him holding the bag actually came through for them and found more of the yellow markings. John was able to find a large section of the paint that seemed to be some kind of message. Despite what Sherlock might have thought, John was not a complete idiot and did manage to take a picture of it before it was covered up. Sherlock was able to deduce that the numbers were codes that corresponded with a page and word number in a certain book so he requested that all of the banker's and the journalist's books be sent over. John could not help thinking that if only they would have had more time with Soo Lin then this would all be unnecessary.

Thinking of Soo Lin sent a pang of regret through his chest. Why hadn't he stayed with her? She was scared and vulnerable but the idea never even crossed his mind that he should stay and protect her. When had it become his natural instinct to protect Sherlock? Just the suggestion that Sherlock could be in danger was enough to spur John into doing anything. John shuddered to think what life would be like if Sherlock died or, worse yet, left him behind for good.

Sherlock had not mentioned anything about their kiss earlier but John could not stop from thinking about it and how it felt. Although Sherlock had almost immediately brushed it off as nothing, John swore that he noticed the slightest flash of sadness in the man's face when it ended. John couldn't even decide if Sherlock was serious or not, which truly irritated him. If there was one thing John was good at it, it was picking up on a man's attraction to him, but for the life of him he could not read Sherlock. The arrogant, brilliant man always kept John on his toes and he couldn't get enough of it.

John was brought out of his thoughts by Dimmock appearing by his side at one of the stacks of crates. "I suppose that means you'll take a rain check for tonight?" the detective asked with a chuckle.

John groaned, "I'm sorry, mate. I was looking forward to it and so was Greg, but-"

"No need to explain," Dimmock said with a pat to John's back. "It's the job. We've all been there. Lestrade understands that better than anybody."

John groaned again and took out his mobile to call Greg. Dimmock looked about expectantly and asked, "Is there anything I can help with?"

"Silence would be appreciated," Sherlock drawled.

Dimmock rolled his eyes and waved goodbye at John then turned to leave, saying, "If you do find anything, give me a call."

John was only able to reach Greg's mobile and leave a message about the case and dinner. In some way he was grateful because he felt his own guilt was gnawing at him so harshly, he didn't think himself capable of even talking to his lover.

As they worked on sorting the hundreds of books before them, Sherlock maintained complete concentration on the task. After several minutes, he took John by surprise when he seemingly out of nowhere said, "You cancelled your plans for tonight."

John looked up at him but Sherlock's gaze was on the books. "Yes, well, we have a case," John said with a shrug.

"This is more important," Sherlock stated instead of asking.

John nodded in agreement and continued searching. After an hour of making disappointing progress, they were interrupted when Greg walked in carrying takeaway. John smiled widely but was inwardly panicking. The inspector approached John, giving him a peck on the cheek and cheerfully said, "I hope you don't mind, your landlady let me in, I thought you two could use something to eat. I got Italian, thought you might not be in the mood for Chinese."

"That's wonderful," John replied, feeling like a complete git as he followed Greg into the kitchen. "Thank you."

"Sherlock, it's going to be a long night, you should have something to eat," Greg called out. When Sherlock flat out ignored him, the inspector tried another approach, "You don't have to have much. Look, I brought you a cannoli."

At that, Sherlock perked up and rushed into the kitchen, snatching the proffered dessert and taking it back to the sitting room. John looked on in surprise and Greg smiled as he said, "We all have our weaknesses."

With a sudden wave of affection, John planted a kiss on Greg's lips and said, "I feel like a right prat for cancelling tonight so I'll make it up to you. Let's go out tomorrow."

"John, you don't have to make promises-" Greg began but John cut him off.

"No, I want to do this and I think it's long overdue that we have a proper date."

Greg looked back skeptically for a second but then shrugged and replied, "Alright, a night out does sound appealing."

John kissed him again before the two sat down for dinner. As he recounted the day's events, John could swear he felt Sherlock's eyes boring into the back of his head, but whenever he glanced to check on the man, he was still sorting through books, ignoring everything else.

After dinner, Greg rose and began on the dishes as he always did at their flat when suddenly Sherlock burst into the kitchen and roughly batted Greg's hands away from the tap. John rose and shouted, "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Saving my work," Sherlock replied irritably. "I have an experiment at a critical stage residing in the drain and I would prefer it not be washed away."

"An experiment in the drain?" Greg asked. "How do you cook, clean, eat?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and Greg nodded, "Oh right, forgot who I was talking to for a second."

"Maybe it's best if you leave, inspector," Sherlock snarled.

"Sherlock!" John sputtered at the man's rudeness.

"No, it's fine," Greg said, raising his hands in resignation. "I have work in the morning anyway. Sherlock, as always, it's been a pleasure."

After putting on his coat, Greg took John's hand and led him over to the door. After a soft but lingering kiss, Greg smiled and said, "I'll see you tomorrow and do try to get a little sleep at some point."

John squeezed his hand and gave him a peck on the cheek before he left. When John heard the front door close, he turned and tried to glare at Sherlock but the detective was already back to work and paid no attention. With a sigh, John gave up trying to be angry at Sherlock and started to help him with the books.

They worked through the night and when John noticed sunlight peaking through the dusty windows, he decided that he needed something stronger than tea and went to the kitchen to brew coffee. After rooting through the cabinets, dodging mould cultures and specimen jars, John let out tired sigh of victory when he found some instant coffee. As he absently reached for a mug, he was shocked when he felt a hand envelope his own. Startled, John gazed up into Sherlock's grey eyes and held his breath, paralyzed by the intense connection he felt.

Their eyes remained locked for only a moment before Sherlock pulled his hand away and broke the trance, saying, "You're exhausted. Go ahead and sleep for a while."

John nodded dumbly, taking a moment to collect himself before walking toward the sofa.

"Not there," Sherlock said suddenly, making John turn around. "Use my room . . . I don't want you snoring and distracting me."

John raised an eyebrow but eventually shrugged and followed Sherlock into the bedroom, which was surprisingly tidy and well kept. Sherlock pulled back the covers and gave an awkward half smile before turning to leave. John began taking off his shoes and said, "Make sure you wake me if you find anything."

"Of course," Sherlock replied as he shut the door.

After taking off his shoes, John hesitated, wondering if he should remove his jeans. Although he knew it would be more comfortable and Sherlock obviously indicated he should lie _in_ the bed instead of on top of the covers, John worried about the level of intimacy involved in being in Sherlock's bed in only his underwear. Suddenly, the idea of being surrounded by Sherlock's scent on the sheets, rubbing against his bare legs, made John far too aroused than he should have been. With recognition of the inappropriate feelings, John decided to leave his jeans on.

When John woke, rested and refreshed, he nearly did a double take at the clock as he realized that he had slept for nearly nine hours. On his best nights, shagged out with Greg in his arms, John still could only manage five maybe six hours of uninterrupted slumber, making nine hours an unprecedented event.

After straightening his slept-in clothes as much as he could, John went to leave the room but stopped when he heard voices. It was Sherlock speaking with his landlady, Mrs. Hudson.

"Look, they both have this one. We read that in our book club. Which reminds me, where is Dr. Watson? I was hoping to see him," the elderly woman said. "The other women in the club are green with envy that I know him. They ask about him all the time."

"Do you actually _read_ any books or is this club really just some gossip circle?" Sherlock asked snidely.

Mrs. Hudson ignored his comment and continued prying, "Do you know if he's seeing anyone? Nadine has a niece named Mary that would be just perfect for him."

Sherlock groaned loudly, "The last thing I would ever do is subject John to the likes of your prattling friends' boring relatives, and besides, John is a homosexual."

"Is he now?" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed and then asked softly, "Are you two . . ."

With another huff of frustration, Sherlock replied, "He's involved with Inspector Lestrade."

"Oh, the handsome officer from the Yard that he shares a flat with? Is it serious?"

"No," Sherlock answered quickly. "I'm not an expert on relationships but it appears to be mostly sexual and arose out of the convenience of their living situation."

"How long has it been going on?" The landlady asked with too much interest.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock bellowed. "You waste enough of my time, blathering on about inane topics like tea and the weather, please refrain from turning the life of my friend into fodder for your idle gossip."

"Really, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson scolded. "Sometimes I wonder if you have no manners whatsoever. When you do see Dr. Watson, tell him to stop by so we can chat."

"Good day, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock called out crossly as the front door closed.

John emerged from the bedroom sheepishly, hoping not to incur any of Sherlock's wrath, but to his surprise, the man seemed happy to see him.

"Ah, you're awake and well rested," Sherlock said waving him over to the sitting room but paused when John approached. "Did you sleep in your clothes?" Sherlock asked with the oddest hint of disappointment.

"Oh, yes, I didn't want-" John stammered.

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock said with a dismissive wave. "I still haven't cracked the code but tonight I have a plan for us to do some reconnaissance."

"Can't tonight," John said, seeming to surprise the detective. "I'm taking Greg out on a date."

"But we have a case on," Sherlock pleaded with an almost childlike whine.

"Yes, but the case is stalled at the moment so I want to be with my boyfriend," John replied, making Sherlock's lips curl into a scowl. "I'm sure you can manage without me for a few hours."

Sherlock turned and went back to looking through his notes before he suddenly softened and inquired, "Where are you taking him?"

"I don't know, dinner, the cinema?"

"Dull," Sherlock said and handed over a flyer. "Try this. I can even arrange the tickets for you."

* * *

"I haven't been to the circus since the boys were little," Greg said as they walked toward the concert hall. "You say _Sherlock_ suggested this?"

"Yeah, he did. I was going to say no at first, but I thought we might as well do something exciting. Usually we're both so tired from work that all we can manage is a pint when we go out."

"I happen to like our simple nights," Greg countered but grasped John's hand and squeezed. "But, I suppose this is a nice change of pace."

When they approached the will call box, John told the clerk, "Tickets for Sherlock Holmes."

The young man nodded as he looked up the right envelope and said, "Yes, that's three tickets, sir."

"Wait, no," John replied. "That should be two."

"No sir, we have three."

With a groan, John turned around and was not surprised to find Sherlock standing behind them, a poorly concealed smirk tugging at his lips. Greg gave a small sigh but stuck out his hand anyway and said, "Sherlock, good to see you. So you've decided to join us tonight?"

"Yes, I got to thinking about this show and thought it would make for an interesting evening," Sherlock said with a practiced air of fake pleasantry. "John had mentioned I should join you two at some point and I thought we were all do for a nice time out and a friendly _chat_."

Sherlock accentuated the last word as he locked eyes with John momentarily before flashing a phony smile. John immediately recognized that expression and knew Sherlock was plotting something. His mind reeled and stomach knotted with the possible implications of the detective's words.

"Right, yes," John said tensely. "Sherlock, may I have a word with you?"

"Of course, John," Sherlock answered smoothly as John dragged him by the elbow over to the stairwell.

John pushed Sherlock ahead of him so he was on the step higher and looked about before speaking in a low, clipped tone, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I told you, John, I'm taking you up on your offer of-"

"No!" John raised his voice but quieted himself again to say, "I don't know why you're _really_ here but you cannot tell Greg about what happened yesterday."

"A lot happened yesterday. You'll have to be more specific."

"You can't tell him what happened _between_ us," John said, gesturing to the both of them.

"I'm still not sure what-"

"You cannot tell him that we kissed," John spat out just as he registered Greg standing on the step below him.

Sherlock smirked and turned with a flourish of his coat as he ascended the rest of the stairs. John's eyes lit up with panic as he stammered, "Greg . . . that was . . . what happened . . . it didn't . . ."

However, Greg patted his arm and replied, "It's okay. We'll talk about it later."

"But . . ." John began but was cut off with a quick kiss from Greg.

"Later," Greg repeated and kept walking, taking John's hand.

The audience took their positions, standing informally around the performance arena. John stood next to Greg and laced their fingers together as the lights dimmed. Sherlock stood on the other side of John, slightly behind him. John tried to concentrate on the show and Greg but could not stop his heart from racing at the slight contact Sherlock's coat was making with the back of his leg.

To make matters worse, when the performance began, Sherlock leaned in closely and began to softly describe what was happening. The rumbling baritone caused shivers to run down John's spine as he felt himself losing his orientation of time and space. He was suddenly brought out of his trance with an arrow was shot from the massive crossbow, demonstrating its lethality. When John turned to look at Sherlock, the detective had vanished.

Shortly after the escape artist finished, the show, as with most things involving Sherlock Holmes, quickly descended into a brawl that luckily ended without bloodshed because Greg was able to intervene. Unfortunately, the members of the group were too fast and escaped before anyone could be apprehended.

"I'm staying here to help Dimmock question witnesses, but you two head back to Baker Street and continue with that code," Greg said before giving John a kiss on the cheek and sending him on his way with Sherlock.

The cab ride was uncomfortably silent as John could barely wrap his head around what had happened that evening. Sherlock seemed to be deep in thought and unwilling to discuss what about. When they reached 221B, John had a moment of panic and could not bring himself to be alone in the flat with the man. Mumbling something about being famished, John took off down the street to buy takeaway while he tried to clear his mind.

John was two blocks away from the flat when he was grabbed from behind and shoved into an unmarked van. Once inside, he was quickly tied and blindfolded before he could see anything.

Sometime later after being moved from the vehicle, John's blindfold was removed allowing him to survey the scene. He was somewhere underground, probably part of the sewer system and being held by three captors, two with guns and one, who seemed to be in charge, standing farther away. His body was tied rather securely to a large board propped up in front of the crossbow from the circus, primed and ready to fire into his heart.

With a chuckle, John called out, "I must say I'm rather impressed. My life is threatened almost every week but this is the first time someone's done it with a ridiculously large, Chinese crossbow. They usually just have something boring like a gun."

"Dr. Watson," the leader in the back began with a voice that John remembered as the woman from the circus, "we have brought you here to secure the return of the artifact."

"Really?" John replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. "And here I thought it was so you could enjoy my famed wit and humor."

"We have left a message and you will be released when Sherlock Holmes brings us the hairpin."

"A hairpin?" John exclaimed with indignant anger.

"An ancient jade hairpin worth 9 million pounds," General Shan answered as if John were stupid.

"Three people!" John yelled. "Three people are dead because of a _hairpin_."

"Dr. Watson, what may seem like a trifle to you, holds great significance to another," the woman admonished, causing John to flinch slightly. "Those people knew the life when they chose it and bound themselves to their fates."

"If you believe so much in fate, could you maybe do me a favor?" John asked. "If it comes down to it and you have to shoot me, please use a gun. It's bad enough that I'd be dying for a hairpin, but I really don't want to be remembered as the man who was killed by a giant crossbow."

"Are you really not frightened?" General Shan asked.

"You're not very frightening," John shot back with a hint of disdain in his voice.

"It seems you are just as brave as people say you are. It will be a great shame to have to kill you," the smuggler said as she strode over to the crossbow. "I suppose the least we can do is accommodate your last wishes."

General Shan then carefully removed the arrow from the bow and tossed it to one of her subordinates.

John sighed sarcastically before saying, "Much appreciated."

The smugglers froze when the sound of sirens could be heard in the distance, which seemed to be serving as a perfect distraction for the figure creeping along the wall. John immediately recognized the outline of the man's long coat and prayed that he wasn't about to do anything stupid. The darkness made seeing what exactly happened difficult but John could hear the distinct smack when Sherlock swung something at one of the smuggler's heads, sending the man to the ground.

The resulting melee with the other smuggler ended abruptly when two gunshots sounded out almost simultaneously. John cried out for Sherlock as the police stormed in. His pulse was racing far too fast and his vision was narrowing while his stomach swirled violently, all sensations he had not felt since Afghanistan. However, John kept shouting to know if Sherlock was alive.

He was eventually brought out of his panic by a familiar, deep voice saying, "John, I'm here. Please calm down. Are you in pain?"

John was finally able to concentrate on Sherlock's face as it appeared in front of him, the features lined with worry. After breathing a great sigh of relief, John asked, "Why would I be in pain?"

"John . . ." Sherlock said and moved out a shaking hand. John followed the direction and for the first time noticed his entire right side was covered in blood the source of which was a bullet wound in his shoulder.

As John stared at his wound in shock, Sherlock shouted, "Lestrade! Get the paramedics in here. John's been shot!"

The detective then pulled off his scarf and began compressing the wound. John groaned and said, "Don't do that. You'll ruin it."

"It's just a scarf," Sherlock answered, trying desperately to hiding the waver in his voice.

"But it's my favorite. It complements your eyes," John said, starting to feel light headed. "Leave it. It's fine, it doesn't even hurt."

"You're in shock, so stop squirming," Sherlock hissed, a silent _idiot_ hanging in the air. "The paramedics will cut you down and take you to the hospital."

"What about you, Sherlock? Did they hurt you?" John asked.

"No, I'm fine. Now if you would-"

"Good," John interrupted. "Good. I couldn't stand to see you hurt."

Sherlock gaped for a second, unsure of how to respond, but never had the chance when he was pushed out of the way by a team of paramedics.

* * *

When John woke from surgery, he looked over to see Greg at his bedside. Once the inspector noticed John was conscious, he leaned over and grasped his hand, saying, "The procedure went very well. How do you feel?"

Still groggy from the anesthesia, John took a moment to try moving his shoulder, a very unwise decision that caused pain to shoot out violently.

"Whoa, no moving around," Greg reprimanded. "I said the procedure went well but you were still bloody shot. It's going to take time."

John rolled his eyes wondering if doctors really did make the worst patients. Remembering everything that happened, John had to ask, "Did you catch them?"

Greg sighed, "The assassin called the Spider is dead and we have the other smuggler in custody, but Shan escaped seemingly without a trace. Sherlock is livid."

John smiled as he said softly, "I bet he is."

"He thinks that Shan will try some sort of revenge, but Dimmock and I think she's probably going to flee the country. Either she'll go into hiding or will be executed for her failure." Greg then squeezed John's hand and lowered his voice, "At least, I hope so."

"Well, I happen to have my very handsome boyfriend to look out for me, so I'm not too worried."

At that, Greg let go of John's hand and sheepishly looked away. John groaned and leaned back in bed before saying, "You know there should be a law against breaking up with someone when they're in hospital."

Greg chuckled, "Yeah, but there isn't."

"I think we have a great thing going on and maybe if we talk, we can work around this," John said hopefully.

Greg ran his hand through his silver hair and took a moment to collect himself before saying, "I knew going into this that you had certain feelings for Sherlock and I was honestly okay with that. He's alluring and unusual not to mention absolutely gorgeous so it made sense that you would be drawn to him. It's just that I never realized he would feel the same about you. In all the years I've known him, he hasn't shown romantic interest in a single person so I'd always assumed he was somewhat asexual, but it's different with you."

"Greg, Sherlock and I are-"

"He's in love with you," Greg interrupted. John could only gape in response. "I saw it in his eyes when he found out you were taken by the smugglers. There have been other little things, but that was when I realized just how far gone he was. You've become his world."

John opened his mouth to say something but nothing would come out. Greg looked him in the eyes and continued, "I honestly care for you and for Sherlock. There's no way I could live with myself knowing that I'm keeping him from actually being happy. You probably don't realize it but you two light up around each other. I've never seen anything like it. I spent far too many years denying who I really was and I what I wanted to be able to watch you do the same."

As John continued to flounder speechlessly, Greg leaned over and placed a kiss to his forehead. He then slung his jacket over his arm and left the room. John was angry for a moment as he considered that the man had just dropped a bombshell and then waltzed out, but he realized it was for the best, he needed time to think.

By the time Sherlock entered the room – Greg had been kind enough to give him ten minutes before sending the man in – John was ready with what he needed to say. Sherlock gave a terse half smile and stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed as he spoke, "You seem to be recovering nicely."

"I want to thank you for saving my life," John said.

"Yes, well, I know you'd do the same for me," Sherlock replied uncomfortably.

"I want to thank you for not just last night but for everything," John said, causing Sherlock to look up with curiosity. "Before we met, my life was in ruins. I was at the point that I wanted to end everything. You gave me a reason to keep living."

Sherlock could barely contain the hope that sprang up in his eyes as John continued, "I don't think you give Lestrade enough credit as a detective."

Immediately, at the mention of Lestrade's name, Sherlock scowled but John kept speaking, "He was able to figure out that I'm in love with you when I wasn't even aware of it." John paused for a moment and continued with a softer tone, "He also deduced that you're in love with me."

Sherlock's eyes widened while he stared at John as if, had he blinked, the man would disappear.

"Why didn't I see it, Sherlock?" John asked while pleadingly gazing at the man. "When I think back over the past months, it's so obvious. I mean, you were willing to kill yourself to protect me after only knowing me a few days. How could I possibly miss all these signs?"

"Because you're an idiot," Sherlock answered, a rare genuine smile gracing his lips that held a world of warmth and affection.

With slight apprehension, Sherlock moved over to John's side and gently grasped his hand. Slowly, Sherlock brought the hand up to his lips and pressed them lovingly onto John's palm. John then slid his hand to clasp Sherlock's cheek and guided him down so he could bring their mouths together in an achingly perfect kiss.

* * *

"It seems the item was staring us in the face the entire time," Sherlock said as they strode into the posh bank lobby. "Van Coon was the type to apologize with gifts and this one happened to cost him his life."

Once inside, they paused and Sherlock grasped at John's hand, seeming reluctant to let go. John was shocked to see the normally aloof detective in such a vulnerable state. It appeared almost as if he could not believe that John was his to keep.

"Perhaps he thought flowers were a bit cliché," John said, hoping to ease Sherlock's tension. When it didn't work, he spoke again, "Right, so you talk to the secretary and retrieve the hairpin while I finish up business with Sebastian."

Sherlock suddenly came to realize he was being clingy and dropped John's hand, saying, "Yes, of course, won't take long."

John gave him a reassuring smile before they approached the front desk to announce their arrival. Once upstairs, Sherlock headed toward Van Coon's old office and John went to Sebastian's.

Upon entering the room, John was greeted by Sebastian who stood and gave a smile John wanted to smash off his face. Instead, John returned with his own polite smile as Sebastian spoke, "John Watson, I've read all about you in the papers, seems you're a regular hero. I must say, though, being shot twice in one year, seems like you have a target on your back."

Sebastian laughed loudly at his own joke as he leaned against his desk and crossed his arms. "I have to admit I was a tad nervous hiring Holmes for this job, but with you there to help him, it looks like a brilliant decision now. So tell me: how did they break in here?"

"The man who broke in was called The Spider, a ruthless assassin and accomplished acrobat, but thankfully, a lousy shot," John said, nodding to his shoulder. "He's dead now but if you think someone else might try it, I'd suggest boarding up your skylight."

Sebastian moved back behind his desk and took out his checkbook. "Well, it seems you and Holmes have earned yourself 30 thousand pounds."

"No mate, keep it," John said with a smirk. "You're going to need it. Ta!"

John then turned and strolled out as a team from the narcotics division of NSY marched in. Sebastian's indignant shouts of protest were drawing a considerable crowd. By the time the banker was led out in handcuffs, Sherlock had emerged from Van Coon's office and was watching with wide eyes. He approached John and asked in a confused voice, "What is going on?"

"It seems Van Coon wasn't the only one benefitting from illegal side projects," John said with a thinly veiled grin. "Since our business is done here, why don't we head out?"

Sherlock nodded silently and followed John downstairs. Once they returned to Baker Street, Sherlock, who had not said a word the entire trip back, sat on the sofa and stared ahead, lost in his thoughts. Cautiously, John sat next to him and stroked a gentle hand across his back. Even though he wanted to say so many things, John stayed silent and waited for Sherlock to make the first move.

After five minutes, Sherlock finally spoke at a near whisper, "I was showing off when I took this case. Sebastian once told me nobody would ever be my friend and I wanted him to know he was wrong."

A few minutes of silence passed before John softly said, "I wanted to kill him. Had I met him in a darkened ally instead of a restaurant's loo, I just might've. Actually, I want to punish all those morons who call you _freak_ or _weirdo_."

"Then you must want to destroy half of London," Sherlock replied.

"Some days, yes," John said with a chuckle. "You're a wholly unique, beautiful creature and they're scared of you. They see your brilliance and try to diminish it with petty insults. I almost feel pity on anyone not able to see just how amazing you are. The fact that I saw it within the first thirty seconds of meeting you makes me feel special. You're the sun and I'm the moon reflecting your light."

"That must be why I revolve around you," Sherlock added.

"Actually, the sun doesn't . . . never mind," John said with a shake of his head. He then moved his hand from Sherlock's shoulder up to his cheek and gently ran his thumb alone the man's soft, white skin. Sherlock's grey eyes seemed to shine with rarely seen affection as he leaned over and drew John into a lingering kiss, mindful of his immobilized right arm.

The kiss began to intensify and as John started sliding his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, he moved his left hand down the man's chest, stopping when he felt something strange. Although it took some fumbling, John managed to unbutton Sherlock's crisp, purple shirt and sat back to stare at what he saw hanging around the man's neck.

"Those are my dog tags," John said in a hushed voice.

Sherlock averted his eyes and replied softly, "You were thinking about giving them to Lestrade and I suppose I panicked."

"How could you _possibly_ know I was thinking that?" John asked incredulously.

"We were at a crime scene and you were looking at him while touching your hand to the center of your chest. You can be quite transparent at times," Sherlock said with his normal dry voice, but then he wavered slightly as he said, "Is it . . . not good?"

"No," John said quickly. "Actually, it's . . . perfect. You're perfect."

Sherlock grinned and pulled John back into his arms, kissing him deeply.

* * *

_Excerpt from: Hidden Messages_

_By Dr. John H. Watson_

_It's daunting to think that there is an entire world of information right in front of us that we never see. Well, we see it but we don't observe it, at least that's what the great Sherlock Holmes always says. Most of the time, it's little things like the way a woman cares for her jewelry or a man shines his shoes, but sometimes we miss big things._

_While working on the case of The Blind Banker, which you can read about on my blog, I found myself taking a hard look at the messages that elude us even when they're in plain sight. Take for example the taggers and graffiti artists that 'decorate' so much of London nowadays. Some see it as art, some as self expression, the police see it as vandalism, but did you know that some see it as a means of communication? Written out in bright colors for anyone to see are complex codes used to communicate territorial boundaries, locations for secret meetings, and even daily announcements. We all communicate on a much more basic level with our speech and clothing, most of the time not even realizing it._

_. . . For the longest time, I held on to a childlike belief that when I fell in love,_ really _fell in love, head over heels, I would be the first to know. As things turned out, I was the last. It took the wise words of a very dear friend to finally make me open my eyes and see what should have been terribly obvious. I'm now very curious as to what else I've failed to recognize. There is an entire world of missed opportunities that pass us by because we fail to truly observe our environment._

_Take some time and think about the things in life you might be missing. You'll be surprised when you consider all the times you could have turned left but went right and how different your life would be. Or perhaps, some things wouldn't have changed at all. The question that no one can answer is that of fate. Are there actions we are meant to take or people we are supposed to meet that no matter what, we will find ourselves intertwined with? The practical doctor and soldier within me say no, but the romantic fool continues to wonder._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long for this last chapter, but as you can see, it's quite long. I just never got to a point where I felt I had a good chapter ending. I've decided to continue this as a series so if you like it, keep an eye out for the next stories. Thanks for the kudos and comments!


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